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Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall - Robert Frost

I

It is not the time of year of bleak derision

Or of the coming of the end of things.

January’s division is no more the insipid sunlight

Splintered lengthways through the garden

Or the sodden wintry matte of dead leaf underfoot,

Than dreams are just the unimportant intervals;

The times of waste between the times of doing.

This is the dreaming-season. Kingdom of the crow,

Low thicket, mistletoe, where death itself is life;

The evening mist amongst the fading light.

Such is the way of gathering, of recession

In the balancing of the scheme of things.

Not absolution, but preparation for procession,

Transmission: generation with renewed vigour.

The verdant growth, the vernal flourish

Is the gelid earth and the stripped limbs also.

The catch that cries when the pigeon dies

By claw of cat is not the end, but continual

Transformation. Assimilation of one into other

As condensation, in flux and distribution,

In the fluid of the flow of Light

In the fluid of the flow of Darkness.