The Mists of Autumn
l
Keatsian autumn, its “mellow fruitfulness,”
long, golden hours, the sky within the lake
subliminal, sublime, so quiet even
the insects in the weeds seem loud in contrast
to the stillness of the water and the air.
Three years since you were here. Who could have guessed
what you were thinking, that in spite of this—
warm weather, gilded leaves—you’d had enough
of pain and were deciding when to die.
2
Three days a week I drove you through the gold
and crimson arches of the trees toward where
you’d leave me for the penetrating cold—
a cold to keep the viruses at bay,
so cold in summer that you’d need a blanket—
where you were tethered to the loud machine,
where others in their hell were also bound,
and where for months you managed to be cheerful,
trying to lighten what might be a burden
for the nurse who placed the needles in your veins.
3
“It’s your vacation day,” you used to say
when I left you there. Behind that heavy door,
no sun, no respite. What you didn’t know—
an emptiness came quickly over me,
a loneliness too vast to be explained.
Four hours till I could come for you again,
four hours of knowing you were sitting there,
confined, no other way to stay alive.
And in the heat of noon I’d only feel
how cold you were, how far away from me,
how weak with illness. Finally the hour arrived
when I could come for you and take you home.
4
Late sun, and “later flowers for the bees . . .”
Sometimes I pass the place, its tight-drawn blinds
(for privacy? to keep the world away?),
the place I parked to wait, ahead of time,
with Keats’s letters, opened randomly.
I can’t help wishing you were still inside,
the nurse releasing you into my care,
the short drive home through mists and falling leaves,
the scents of autumn, woodsmoke in the air . . .
Yet I was well, and you were still in pain,
and you were more unwell and wished to die,
but stayed with me a while through golden days,
and now are missing, missing everywhere.