for Barry Bergdoll and Bill Ryall
Fall will touch down in golden Orient,
where ospreys float and peace comes dropping slow.
There will be pumpkins by the ton at Latham’s.
The trees will re-rehearse their yearly show.
But now crepe myrtle ornaments the village,
rose of Sharon, autumn clematis.
The oyster ponds are dark and tranquil mirrors
basking in the sunlight’s brazen kiss.
On Skipper’s Lane, Sebastian and Sarah
have packed up with their brood, as one expects,
and Madeline and Chris, and Jane and Eddie.
No more artists! No more architects!
Just Miriam and Grayson, Sylvia and Freddie.
Gone: writers, agents, publishers, and all!
The real people, proudly holding steady,
will reap the blond munificence of fall.
Goodbye to the disturbances of summer,
when Stevie’s singers jazzed in Poquatuck
and a Supreme Court Justice read our rights out
to every citizen, man, doe, and buck.
Now egrets dot the marsh on Narrow River.
The swan is hiding till she nests next spring.
Virginia creeper reddens on the tree trunks.
Goldenrod envelops everything,
succeeding to swamp rose and honeysuckle
and all the weeds that came and went in waves.
The geese will soon be flying in formation
the way the Tuthill slaves sleep in their graves.
Near the monarch station, the Holzapfels
harvest their garlic. Milkweed is in flower.
Leslie’s pool is cooling down. The ferry
disgorges only fifty cars an hour.
It’s time for sweet bay scallops, now the jellies
have turned tail in the Sound and sped away.
The Bogdens lay their conch pots every morning,
and the water climbs in Hallock’s Bay.
Charles the First is staking lilies. Sinan
reduces his last oozings, hours by hours.
Karen surveys the still street from her study.
Charles the Second’s arms are full of flowers.
And the wild turkeys make their first appearance,
though Bay and Sound still glisten from the Hill.
The vineyard grapes hang blithe and ripe and ruddy.
Ann builds her house and Barry marries Bill.
Wreathe them with sea lavender and asters!
Sing for the joys and years they have in store.
Husband them; preserve them from disasters.
Let there be jazzing in the deep heart’s core—
and let the tide not overrun the causeway:
may Orient be theirs forever more!
from The New Yorker