The trees around me dropped their leaves, shook off their birds, and made the autumn-beds of their brown leaves often enough to make more autumn songs. The woman I loved was made of meerschaum and one Swiss monsoon broke in two. Yes, it is possible, elsewhere, that an orchestral intention is realized in being read so well by nature. I am not promised any such nor have recourse to what's in the ear but will not ring out in the time that remains. Yet, strangely, as I write this, tears come down like a rain that strings all instruments, making new channels of grief in this poem and across that continent of pain.
Life translates like that.