Autumn in Sankt Margarethen

 

Many of the leaves are still up in the trees, beautifully hued, too tired to fall.

But for a few crows the birds are silent, and wet clouds are hugging the hills.

 

Winter is coming, freshly cut wood is crackling in the kachelofen, and on the air one smells the home fires.

The warm vest somehow sits uneasily; my summer clothes are in the washing.

 

I cannot yet feel my own winter, and my body yearns for another sunny spell.

Many is the day that my window is still open, mixing the oven’s glow with the fresh damp air.

 

In vain now I am listening for the tap of the woodpecker, or trying to spy the squirrels in the trees.

My meadows are trackless, but in the gardens young seedling herbs are getting bushier.

 

I am now waiting for the schmetterling to come and seek shelter; she called once, but the lights maddened her and I put her out again.

It will be good to have her company when winter bites and the world whitens.

 

I am late with my autumnal chores: taking in the parsley and the chives, the coriander; brushing the stairway up the hill before the first snow.

The summer in me lingers, I have not finished with it yet.