Radio \ September, Breathes The Meadow

Alan: Ralph Vaughan Williams’ "The Lark Ascending" seems to vibrate midway between heaven and earth, like the skylark itself in its spring display.  Hearing it now, 100 years after its composition, I can’t help but feel a melancholy pang running through the promise of renewed life.

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Needy for something, punching “on,”

filling the car at random –

last slow-spooling notes of “The Lark Ascending.”

     Quiet, he stands in shadow,

     transfixed by some half-seen motion

     above the glare of stubble fields.

Follow that lone violin

arabesqueing upward to vanish

in an ache of blue.

     He turns, retraces his steps

     while the bird, invisible now,

     still rises, singing in his mind.

A leaf curlicues across the road.

“Poplar,” I think.

“Still green,” I think.

“Summer’s ending now,” I think.

Nancy: Picking up speed, the year rushes on; I feel trapped in a car on the Coney Island ferris wheel.  Stop!  Stop!  Too late.  I shoot out into space.

September, Breathes The Meadow

Visible breath of September

    mist

    gray of the neck feathers of the dove

    rose gray

    there, and there

    mist ephemeral

    made real in the seeding grass

    translucent as the leaves of the iris

    gracefully yielding up life

July's breath

the breath of August

    was often French horns

    might have been flutes

    spoke with the strength of pan pipes

    a pulse of stone

    a pulse of life

This morning

    the meadow is silent

    familiar

    one elm tree standing alone

    fir, eternally green

Familiar

    and yet

    mist

    a quick stop and start of the heart

    I see

    I see and I know

that the meadow is breathing September.