“In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
The leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.”
–Robert Bly
Shadows lengthen under the apple trees. It’s a princely trouble I’m feeling–a problem from a thousand years ago. Something uncoils and I carry it into the house where it rests among my books. This presence, this siren is like a many armed figure of Durga waving her axe, riding a lion over a mound of skulls–but she’s the smallest Durga in the world, small and green as the inch worm I discover scaling the Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.
Fathoms down, under the waves, my long, informal apprenticeship.
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Planet of the Blind 
I imagine that responding with superlatives is tiresome to read, but I can’t help it.
This post is stunning. I put my hands together in that classic prayer pose and bow to you in gratitude.
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