by Theodora Goss
Wild heart, why do you lament?
The autumn winds blow cold,
and leaves lie on the pavement
in heaps of crimson and gold.
The river sleeps under panes of ice,
the grass on its banks grows sere,
and geese passing overhead
announce the death of the year.
Wild heart, wild heart, stop your moaning.
The year dies its annual death.
Snow will cover this barrenness,
green leaves will curl in the acorn,
that carries life in its cup.
The season teaches you patience:
so wild heart, stop.
But the one I loved is gone
and will never come again;
he cannot be revived
by sun or rain.
He will not return with spring.
Then wild heart, break
and bury yourself in the earth
like a seed, to wake
when shoots push through the fallen leaves
and squirrels chirr in the oak,
to marvel and grieve at life’s
(The image is Autumn Regrets by John Atkinson Grimshaw.)