The Descent of Winter by William Carlos Williams
9/30
There are no perfect waves—
Your writings are a sea
full of misspellings and
faulty sentences. Level. Troubled
A center distant from the land
touched by the wings
of nearly silent birds
that never seen to rest—
This is the sadness of the sea—
waves like words, all broken—
a sameness of lifting and falling mood.
I lean watching the detail
of brittle crest, the delicate
imperfect foam, yellow weed
one piece like another—
There is no hope— if not a coral
island slowly forming
to wait for birds to drop
the seeds will make it habitable
10/22
the brilliant field
of rainwet orange
blanketed
by the red grass
and oilgreen bayberry
the last yarrow
on the gutter
white by the sandy
rainwater
and a white birch
with yellow leaves
and few
and loosely hung
and a young dog
jumped out
of the old barrel
10/28
in this strong light
the leafless beechtree
shines like a cloud
it seems to glow
of itself
with a soft stript light
of love
over the brittle
grass
But there are
on second look
a few yellow leaves
still shaking
far apart
just one here one there
trembling vividly
