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Posts Tagged ‘autumn’

 

 

 

Now dried and brown

the cinquefoil where once

bees danced in gold flowers—

 

recalibrating the heart

to find in brittle clusters

another invitation to dance.

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One Unbaptized

 

 

filled with golden leaves,

the pond, and shimmering with sky

and me, too dry, too dry

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That time of year thou mayst in me behold …. Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

            William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

And though the leaves may fall and molder,

though the winter nights get colder,

and though, my love, we both grow older,

may the choir in me that sings for you

be ever clear and ever blue—

the stream beneath your red canoe.

And though it seems that time’s a thief

and leaf subsides to crumbled leaf

and though the days are gnawed by grief,

may I sing for you forever sweet

in tunes both tame and indiscreet—

sing bare, unruined, my heart, my beat.

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Autumn Beside the River

 

 

 

The rocks that were underwater

two months ago are dry now,

and a woman can sit on them

beneath the bridge and escape

the September sun. But she can’t

escape herself. There was a time

she really believed she could control things.

Now she sits with her own brokenness

and invites the inevitable autumn into her,

the autumn that’s already come.

Invites the lengthening nights. Invites

the dank scent of the garden, moldering and dead.

Invites the loss of green. You can’t be

a sapling forever, she tells herself,

though another part of her argues,

Yes you can, yes you can.

 

The river has never been so clear—

every rock in the bed is visible now,

and perhaps clarity is one of autumn’s best gifts.

She imagines the leaves of her falling off—

how she loves them.

She imagines them golden in the wind.

 

 

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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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