Autumnal

October, teach me bright failing In the last orange blossoms of my squashes, In the flip of a woodpecker’s wing, As a shower of crimson leaves washes

The last orange blossoms of my squashes, Which frost will blight before they load the vine As a shower of crimson leaves washes My window. But how can I call these things mine, Which frost will blight before they load the vine Which winter takes under the dark soil beneath My window? O how can I call these things mine When I haven’t a single true word in me And winter talks under the dark soil? Beneath My winter’s silent utter zero, When I haven’t a single true word in me, Or a single gentle gesture, teach me to burrow: To hatch from my winter’s silent utter zero The still echo of a woodpecker’s pounding Or a squash-vine’s gentle gesture. Teach me to borrow, October, teach me bright failing.