In a field no longer on its back & burning; out of a poor floral that has not laid with Rain since a spring lightning---the last anticipation of this wild radish will become what the absent Water left behind: voids of the ravished "anticipating" the root each seed will excite when Light is again a flame.
Gone to seed I am like a sea the Sun is eager to river.
Raphanus sativus
The lasting dark that sinks in the promise of early spring, springs again from the cold north & settles in the old grass alongside the rain, (long dead), come to life, there where families of Rush, Sedge, Milkweed & Nettle crowd its streams. Summer young they copulate with animal & wind; grow round with progeny & summer old in the ruin of creeks (once the waste of rain) ruin their heads (once the face of flowers) & send similes of fat planets to race away in the cold air that comes from a very old divide that will send a flood of dark to help both the dead & their begotten to swell & promise early spring. 
What need have we for the 2nd Law or redemption? Inexorably the old cold & loving Bacillus will deliver us!
Coenonympha tullia california
A philosopher (Homo sapien sapien) who eschews ecstasy is like a flower (Convolvulus arvensis) denied copulation. A bee (Apis mellifera) indifferent to the excesses is like a reader (Homo sapien receptaculum) who censors the penetration.
"The more it swells, the more it promises."
Constrained philosopher & cautious reader are like chasten rivers—beauty aborted in "dearth or foison"---descendants of Parnassus where it is taught Nothing in Excess.
Chastity is to erotics as a levee is to spring melt. Where "seedmen should scatter grain upon the slime & ooze" & roots seep into the swell & promise, flooded passions instead bleed their mud into an indifferent ocean. The staid rock at Delphi reads Know thyself.
Entrained in what over-runs the banks of true ignorance (in numbers like the stars!) are thoughtful perpetuations of lascivious bindweed—perhaps an unwelcome “notion” & yet as suitable a subject of procreation as any we need (else wise we are left with a pretense of ignorance: the Nilus as vaginal, the reader as sphragis & the first to copulate as Apollo---"read"philosopher!).
Does the awful cold of perfect stasis engorge the star drained of light, drawn into solitude, mortal without novation, alone with only the inexorable?
Is this what comes of the last Hesperia juba drowned in the grass of a dry creek alone with its new rain?
Will these "rivers" of exigency & invention ever rest?
Or must it be they spend all of time in rout? Penetrating our Hesperiidae, copulating with our Celestial?
Energy without fatality (immortality without life) is barren of thoughtful perpetuations like sex, death, gravity & emptiness. All that pass away, we assert, seeks the awful cold of perfect stasis. Yet each trace of spent energy, each intervention of ruin & decay dilates Time & makes the everlasting fat with planets. Without "companionable influences" what could Sojourning do but waste in dreams of unpleasant equilibrium? Remembrances (these traces that spores, seeds & galaxies perpetuate) are intimates of Time, suasions to all that is issued, be it the uplift of a sea-floor to feed its rivers, eclosion of larva that eats its chorion or fealty of woodland a fire ravishes. Pilgrims such as the virile sun learn to impregnate & we, round-womb, are taught to birth & flourish. Instruction swells as we secrete, accumulate, divide, gather & die out. In truth, there is no trace without a willing ignorance to be "educated" along the way. This is what a wild universe does with a mountain geranium—a fatal novation that defies the expectation of heat because fermentation of dark has become soiled, gravid & expectant.
May each of your paths be as pregnant.
Geranium richardsonii
A wild universe conjures fatal novations. It also discloses light. But mostly it gains a fermenting dark, effervescence of all things passing.
We who abide this half of the planet’s exigency, know it is the North that sends us the smell of ruin; the redolance of Winter; an exhalation of shades lunged from a movement; at play upon a far-away divide, crowded with blue pines, beset by a whispering snow we imagine as the absence decay inspires.
The spoil of stars we now behold because Fall has pulled down the black shroud of the North, confirms what summer was able to mostly conceal: the dark that surrounds the Worm, surrounds the World.
Summer is well past its radiant apogee. All the flowering of long ago, satisfied with the fruit we eat. Its seed we leave to wait out the anticipated ruin: this ritual decay of green; this disinterest of a dimming Sun, the draining heat, extinguished rivers & hushed thunder of a far off, anxious sea.
It was a voluptuous relation, both of penetration & reception, this high light of increase. This excess of light that loves us.
Death is an aim without love as an outcome. It comes with the collapse of the vivid & divide of the cellular. Those who sleep like the buried & those who sleep as the buried. The latter "come alive" with loam, flourish with soil-rot & make a rich waste of the once great promise that was Spring.
An adequate truth for the time of Autumn should console the ones who have come to their path’s end (the conjured ground where corruption begins): We who fall, once migrated from dirt, creatures of growth: taught ourselves a unity that will never be again. But we, who are to die past this soil, shall be, as ever, willing to learn & become again fertile--- for as long as there is death, than as long will we learn to live. As long as there is decay, than as long will we learn to create.
May all else wake
to the weather of amorous seas & a sun pregnant
with Spring.
The earth is dry. My roots are chafed & their caps withered, no longer squandering a tree’s time seeking increase. The panting air & eager sun desiccate my leafing. Scorched are the green speculations, played out from lifetimes of ring building. All those dead trees within, stiffen against heaven.
My self of cells is anxious for a pause; to fall so those who make me upright, may empty of enthusiasms; fill with lignin; a presence that remembers; an import that assures others pressed against the year to come, Rain will make us shake off these tired things. Give us time to sleep & waste with dream.
And as we die pass the waiting cambium, Spring will come & wake us with great ambition.
There comes a day when the rivering heat, the anticipation of love, & the expectation to hold tight & thrive, exceeds the companionship of the sun, of the watery ambition & excellence of blood; of the careful societies that justify the body & mind. The mild attraction of others engaged with the weather (others who you have nourished) are no longer twinning at your side. The small swarms of coition too common & too numerous to ever describe, are no more of desire. You are alone in the harshest sense: both vulnerable & unwanted. An entire life emptying into one simple declarative: Animal, you are not needed. What is happening now has happened all around, every moment of your way, only you had managed, somehow, to see past the dead.
There are moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a minute to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful & noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. Joseph Conrad The Heart of Darkness
