one time your green energy
was so vibrant it sang straight to
heaven in a summery heat
then, as chill settled in your bones,
blushed, embarrassed by this new
weakness in your spine,
until a capricious wind,
one grey November day,
gave you the push to let go, and you did
oh so gently making your way
to a shallow grave
on the wet pavement, reflecting back
to your roots.
a burning sky dies over me,
sighs over me, extinguishes
like a lit match
blown softly unconscious.
fingers flaming pass out
into wispy smoke, clouds that once burned
hot slowly rust,
i watch them turn pyroclastic dark,
they turn against me –
an encroaching cloak of emptiness. i watch this death
a hungry voyeur. i listen though
nothing, nothing remains
save a sliver of a moon croaking awake, and black silhouettes
of trees and city rowhome skeletons whispering,
you always leave, you always do
but the gold is worth it for one brief hour,
that one small time our eyes got big
and drank colors possible only in dreams.
i am the loneliest soul.
a shadow moving silent beneath
no one’s hands. Strong
like backs of trees in late November
losing all those leaves
to a hungry season, a cold
as scrappy and conniving as a
starving animal, i
understand these trees, we
in the dark belong to no one
and stand alone under a
moonscape of dreams blown to dust.
Thought it was time to feature Alice B. Johnson, my great-grandmother again with a rather “timely” piece….from her book, Where Children Live (1958). enjoy —
October always casts a magic spell Upon me — I should know, too well, What nature’s autumn wine Will do to hearts like mine — My lagging feet will, somehow, stray Through dusty leaves, my heart will stay Beside bright goldenrod And where pink asters nod.
My steps will pause beside a zinnia bed, Flaunting heads of orange and of red, With maple leaves a sheet, Blanketing their feet — Melancholy days? Not these! When nuts fall from the walnut trees, Must busy squirrels remind me, too, That I have housecleaning to do?
smalll bony legs crook’d over a driveway of shale “here’s one!!!” to a fossil, and our cousins visiting…
“let’s go!!” tossed aside, then scampering off to that place where rotting wood is our breakfast – in our fort, a few saplings leaned to a trunk, first creep inside “Snake!!!” racing fast to the river, there a high crossing keeps out intruders and Indian-style we eat pockets of winesap apples, ruddy green red like that one pesky leaf floating downstream throw a rock, watch it sink….