AT THE DOOR

In the vacant days that seem to come
Between autumn and winter, winter
And spring, in the days of doubt
When seasons stand still, seasonless,
And yet time and the wind blow and beat
Along the empty street, in these days,
Days that we cannot retrieve, in these
I would believe.

The autumn leaf does not fall unseen,
Does not fall just as the preparation
For winter. The dying leaf withers
Turns brown, breaks into the cold air,
As I turn from the doorway of a home
Where but slightly known I was warmly welcomed.
Though but a seasonal visitor, undistinguished
By particular attachment, yet, amongst many
Bringing the sun into the solid boughs,
Drawing the hidden sap from the earth,
Driving the seasonal cycle of a familiar tree.
I turn into the cold night, as a leaf
Drops in relief from the stifling summer
(From the tumult of thoughtless conversation
From the crying child or blaring television)
And fall back upon this, my own nature,
The darkness of the night, a necessary earth.

Yet this fading, falling and inevitable return
Are not where I would place my hope;
The seasons change, their cycle unchanging,
A slow growth and sudden decay.

Not there in that futureless fate
Is our fate, but in the present moment
As the leaf falls to the bare earth,
Or to the grey pavement and the sweeper’s broom.
Here, as I turn from this friendly home,
Where welcomed I am not understood
Nor have come in understanding,
Here, on the step, stepping backward
Into the cold night, one leaf stripped
From a common branch, here
I could be what I wish to be,
Here, had I the strength to see it,
Is something that grace might give;
And here, if I haven’t the strength,
Here is nothing, nothing at all.