Every week the farm sends out a newsletter about what to expect that week in our share, news about the farm, and recipes. This week the newsletter included a poem by Mary Oliver, “Fall Song”:
Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves, the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows, unmattering back from the particular island of this summer, this Now, that now is nowhere except underfoot, moldering in the black subterranean castle of unobservable mysteries—roots and sealed seeds and the wanderings of water. This I try to remember when time’s measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay— how everything lives, shifting from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures.
I haven’t read much poetry since I was in college. Just by coincidence I discovered Mary Oliver’s work a few months ago, after seeing an article in The Guardian that linked to her obituary. “What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.”