Autumn
Tempting to lay in the
yard looking up
at the sky this late in
the day rake stilled
by my side handle and
tines a short hand
punctuation mark,
questions rising like
wood smoke to wreath trees
humming softly as
they turn in for the long
cold night, answers
perhaps nesting high in
their branches, but
if there are the trees
aren’t saying as they
step out of blowsy summer
dresses that
pool about their
feet. They pepper me with
a cacophony of hued muted
prayers,
a burial ritual of tannic
seasoning, the laying on
of red and
yellow serrated hands that
gently hold
me down, one last patch of
blue before first
one eye and then the other
are covered
over, lids held in place
by summer’s loose
pocket change, broad strokes
of paired copper glint.
No comments:
Post a Comment