You are in my head. It is autumn.
The front door opens and I know it
because the light outside is gray
and my book turns a page.
You rush into the house.
The leaves are little fires
which burn very slowly.
Sometimes I think,
“These trees must be made of birds,”
phoenix-burns in crisp, bird-shapes,
crushed into ashes under boot-feet.
Come spring, I hope to God
I hear birds chirping, birds
bursting from the trees,
like shades of green.
It feels as if this
must be the season for writers
Color rips through the pale backdrop —
beauty inked into a blank page
A thin coat of paint over quiet fear —
the inevitable fade
Its name – The Fall —
says something about the first wilting
of The Garden
where Man is the leaves
each falling, in time, to the browning ground
where they will become The Earth
and they can’t resist glancing up
at the sky-lined tree branches
which, relative to them, will live forever