My mind moves in more than one place

Tara Turner,   The Souls of Leaves

Here's a poem from Christina Rossetti:

An October Garden

 

In my Autumn garden I was fain

     To mourn among my scattered roses;

     Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses

To Autumn’s languid sun and rain

When all the world is on the wane!

     Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,

     Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

 

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,

     You are but coarse compared with roses:

     More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses,

Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,

That least and last which cold winds balk;

     A rose it is though least and last of all,

     A rose to me though at the fall.

 

"I have come to a still, but not a deep center,

A point outside the glittering current;

My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,

At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,

My mind moves in more than one place,

In a country half-land, half-water.

I am renewed by death, thought of my death,

The dry scent of a dying garden in September,

The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.

What I love is near at hand,

Always, in earth and air."

The Golden Hour     Photo by April Lindner