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Posts Tagged ‘autumn’

 

 

 

I watched it happen, the confrontation.

The one who was hurt and the one

with no inkling that harm had been done,

and my heart ached for both of them—

for all of us really—all of us fragile, all of us

witless, all of us longing to love, to be loved

for being ourselves.

 

Outside the window, the leaves

were brilliantly dying, burning auburn,

vermillion, a heart swelling show

of what it is we’ve come here to do—

to give our all and give some more,

to do it unreservedly.

 

It’s all a series of repetition, design—

the leaves, the fall, the hurt, the blame,

the confusion, the reconciliation.

It’s all a matter of pattern and letting

go, letting go of whatever we think we know

about how to give.

 

What I’m trying to say is if I have hurt you,

I’m sorry. I don’t understand my own thorns.

I think I am singing and it comes out crooked.

I think I’m supporting and it comes out cage.

There are so many mistakes in my blood,

all of them believing they’re butterflies.

 

My friend tells me the leaves in fall

are returning to their true colors—

how the necessary chlorophyll disguises

what’s really inside.

 

What I’m trying to say is look at the leaves

outside the window, see how vibrant they are?

I am trying to love like that,

every day, the colors more true.

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Today I woke in the dark and was busy

making lunches during the sunrise,

though surely it happened. And I drove

 

in the low morning light along

the San Miguel River for half an hour,

not once noticing the color of the water,

 

the scent on the banks, though past

experience leads me to believe

that there were thousands, millions,

 

of tiny beautiful miracles happening

there in that half hour alone. How much

beauty is lost on me every day, every moment?

 

Though as I stepped out of the car

to walk into work, I saw, stuck to my boot, one

brilliant orange aspen leaf outlined in gold,

 

and for a whole minute, I stared at it,

marveled at its symmetrical veins,

its delicate stem, the astonishing intricacy

 

of its edges. How easily gloriousness finds us, sticks

to us even. How wholly available, this art

of meeting the glittering, luminous world.

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In Mid-September

 

 

Summer travels beyond itself and

warms the stones and gives

the flowers more of what they love.

 

it is like a lover who, though he

has told you he is leaving, returns

and kisses you until you are panting,

 

makes you believe he will always

hold you. But then, even as your lips part

and you lean in, he is gone again,

 

taking his warmth with him,

leaving your skin somehow more fragile

in the thin autumn air.

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Katabatic

 

 

The leaves debate the wind.

We all know who will win.

There is no sound in the fall.

 

Whatever we might do here

amounts to little more than their rustling,

perhaps not even that.

 

Scratch of the branch

at the window. And then

it is silent.

 

 

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Perhaps not as many days of sun

as they might have wanted,

perhaps not as much warmth,

perhaps not as much rain—

rain that soaks in like a lover’s

lingering glance, and still

beside the trail in late fall

they are everywhere,

the seeds of next year’s flowers

giving their everything to the world.

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On the Edge of Cold

 

 

They will say it is impossible,

but I want to give you things

they say no one can keep—

the scent on the trail

this morning, a golden smell,

and the amber light inside it.

Or the pause before the dance

commences. Or the moment

when falling becomes flying.

 

I want to give you elusive things—

the moon in the river, the way

the sunset turns the whole world

to rose, the feeling that love

not only is possible, it’s as

inevitable as blinking, as

unavoidable as noon.

 

It is not too late. In fact,

already we are here.

 

 

 

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One Simultaneous

 

 

 

admiring the gold

emerging in the field—

missing the green it was

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In a Low-Angled Light

 

 

 

Already shriveled, these marigolds

that line the fence. Something soothing

about the way the flowers keep their color,

though the leaves are brown and dried.

From a distance, they are vibrant.

From a distance, you might forget

that the garden will soon be filled with snow.

So much is ignored in the name of beauty.

Here, here is the season with your name on it,

your name the scent of gold. You find yourself

longing to be more like a lily, dropping everything,

not even pretending to survive the cold.

 

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One

looking at falling leaves

until I forget I am a woman

looking at falling leaves

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Already the frost has come,

both intricate and merciless,

and it has taken the basil,

the green beans, the zinnias

and whatever hope we had

that summer might never end.

We knew our hope was irrational,

but that’s never stopped a hope before.

Every day there’s more evidence

against hope—the headlines,

the angry boy down the street,

the child bride in Afghanistan.

And still it rises up, slightly

browned, but still shining

like that marigold bloom that was hiding

beneath a sunflower leaf—

it should be frosted and dead, but

it’s not. Damn hope. Never

acting the way we think it will.

May it trick us forever into choosing

to live another day. And after a long winter

when we’re sure it’s gone, may it always

reseed, putting up dozens of starts.

Not all of them will make it. Some will.

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