Good Lord — it is time. Summer lingered far too long.
Let your shadow now darken our measure of day,
and among the fields unleash the winds to throng.
Tell the late-season fruits to ripen on the vine;
allow them two more sun-drenched rotations,
urge them on to their final fermentations,
and press all sweetness into a heady wine.
Those who have no home are now out of luck.
Those now alone will find themselves no better,
will arise, will read, will write long letters
and will restlessly roam the streets from block
to block, the way leaves and pages scatter.
Autumnal equinox
My translation of Rilke’s poem “Herbsttag”
