AUTUMN IN THE WINGS
I am looking for autumn
in the staghorn sumac,
the gold of the vine maple,
the absence of apples.
A creeping cool that turns
furnaces on and stale odors
out. Fall has found me,
taking a ritual
of beauty, beyond the buoyancy
of my parents dreams, older than
the Bible. Autumn renowned
till cold puts pigment to mounds
blended for burning
or bagging.
All this pressed, years past
between wax paper
and taped to school windows.
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1 comment:
Thanks for the poem. I was a poet
once and sometimes a poem (like yours) calls out the poet-response
in me, a desire to spin out words
like a web to catch the ineffable.
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