“Indian Summer,” by Mani Leib
My Indian Summer, like an offering,
Burns into gold and spirals of smoke.
With brown hand, I push my last
Starry ember through the ash.
Night and villages. On moonlit flutes
The crickets play a breaking music on my heart;
In white grass, by blue-washed pickets,
Gourds are yellow like the moon.
Trees —blue, waxen— in cool space shining.
Like candles, upright: men fearful before God.
Sharp in stillness, the fall of a spent leaf.
Even sharper —the worries in my step.
And by Abraham Reisen “A Song”
The sweetest melody,
Your heart can sing
Keep for your autumn hour,
Not for the spring.
Glad is the blossom time
With its own tune and chime;
Ah, but the sunset day—
Sing it away.
From: a Treasury of Yiddish Poetry edited by Irving Howe and Liezer Greenberg.
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