What would be the one thing?
Beyond sitting?
Beyond waiting?
The air moves.
The trees touch back, wave hello, goodbye. 10-1-11
Withdrawing to the cathedral,
hickory leaves are orange,
honeysuckle berries are red,
maple gives parts of its leaves to wine.
All is measured in movement.
Can air move the light?
It does. 10-2-11
The territory we share—
the light, the leaves,
little spaces for breath,
for poems, for stretching the wings,
feathered and not. 10-2-11
Resting in the holly
a pair of migrating finches
draws in the sun,
a special kind of breath. 10-5-11
Not so bad
waiting with catbird
for the day to warm.
The robin shows himself,
red with life. 10-8-11
The first one,
the first yellow tree—
spicebush startles. 10-10-11
Little cricket with one antenna
what draws you to the tip of my pen?
Is it the flowing?
Or is it the memory of flowing shining like a river
having been brought forth or having been brought down
the shining river, the memory you can touch? 10-10-11
Pierced with summer’s long days,
sharon’s brown leaf lies transparent
on the rose flagstone. 10-12-11
A burst of rain.
Chipmunk keeps to his path
over the poet’s slipper. 10-13-11
In the shadowed wood,
the deeper shadows of two deer
stepping through. 10-15-11
Holding on
all the crab apple leaves
shiver in the wind. 10-15-11
Bladdernut leaves fade to pale cream—
a shower of light
in the dark morning. 10-16-11
How tall the oak tree is
with the sun
suddenly behind it. 10-17-11
The long sunny afternoon.
The young robin and I
regard each other. Sitting.
Breathing. 10-18-11
The world smells
of life easing away.
The soft rain comes again. 10-18-11
At this moment
all the squirrels run up the oaks.
Fox?
No. The Siamese. 10-23-11
Crab apple leaves didn’t change this year.
The sky took them away
without a turn. 10-24-11
The sky is grayer
than the trees are yellow.
The thin cloud moves in between. 10-27-11
In the dark,
in the rain,
hickory’s gold is gold,
enough for all. 10-29-11
