Sunday, November 4, 2012

Vagaries of Choice (from the journal)

There are no words
for creeper’s fall color—
as rich now as the harvest moon.  10-2-12

Mint tea
the old memory—
Café Central in the rain,
like today.
Wet mocassins on my cold feet.  10-2-12

The long rain.
All the saucers are full,
all the spider webs frosted.  10-3-12

What’s a poem?
A breath full of morning mist
touched by crickets, all the little crickets.  10-3-12

The river runs through the cloud
sitting on the ground, on us,
the finest rain.  10-3-12

On a morning
between summer and fall
crickets go on about it.  10-4-12

Poke condensing to yellow and maroon,
creeper to rose,
the star tree to orange.
All smaller, one color at a time.  10-4-12

Issa Connection (for David Lanoue)

All the single moments
of one  man’s life
blown here—
dark brush marks on paper,
translated for my morning breath.  10-4-12

As pale as moonlight
bladdernut turns
toward sleep.  10-5-12

The old woman closed the door,
refused the book, shut the blinds.
Going slowly by herself, alone.
Let it be like a soap bubble breaking,
all the air free now,
free to be.  10-5-12

Winter came overnight,
cold, on a wind that rests here,
quietly in the rain.  10-7-12

Nothing moves in the wood—
the birds, the leaves, the air—
all are waiting for what comes next.  10-7-12

The old path wrapped in bark,
stiff now, from decisions,
supporting horizontal
vagaries of choice, for light,
with buds as flexible
as breath.   10-8-12

One red leaf
in the dogwood sapling
lights the dark wood.  10-8-12

Across the wood
orange leaves rise
like froth on a green wave.  10-9-12

One wren
in the quiet morning
speaks.  She speaks
about the cold.  10-9-12

A pile of papers
on the square table.
A book almost finished.  10-9-12

A shadow across the wood.
It’s squirrel up on the woodpile,
gaining ground.  10-10-12

Blue jay climbs the maple.
Orange leaves fall with
each step.  10-10-12

The wooded light
moves and doesn’t move
across autumn breath
not yet cold.  10-13-12

This morning light is different from all the others—
this light comes from honeysuckle’s yellow leaves,
from bladdernut’s yellow leaves,
from maple’s yellow leaves.
A new light with only yesterday’s woods
to reflect it.  10-15-12

Red on the salmon
three maple leaves.  10-15-12

Suddenly rain comes
out of a yellow-gray sky.
Everywhere in the woods
squirrels whip their tails.  10-15-12

Poke’s dried berries
float on yellow and maroon branches—
a color we wait all year for.  10-15-12

Star tree glows from inside.
It’s her inner orange
showing through.  10-15-12

It’s a special weight dogwood has,
her orange leaves holding the eye,
the heart.  10-15-12

Under the singing redbird
sassafras shows her
first yellow leaves.  10-17-12

Sunlight poppies ring the art building.
My pockets fill with their
thin brown seeds.  10-17-12

Who will know?
No one will know
when the snowbirds
invert, black for white.  10-17-12

From the far woods
hickory looks in—
green breathing to gold.  10-17-12

Herringboned between summer and fall,
between green and yellow—
the lost wild olive.  10-18-12

The yellow wood
comes closer wearing
blue jay in its lapel.  10-19-12

In the rain—
yellow warmth, advancing.
Blue jay
in the bare hickory
tips her tail.  10-19-12

They threw down their shoes
those two little girls did,
running now down the path
with feet flying to the side,
the liquid giggles
coming down.  10-20-12

Curling forward slowly,
along the brown back,
the white tail in a spot of sun
is all I see of the deer, head down,
pawing up the partridge berry.  10-20-12

With the sun from behind,
hickory’s golden leaves
are all we can see.  10-20-12

That color,
that orange dogwood color,
and myrtle’s red
next to the cinnamon wren
smell like dusty maple leaves
curling up on the ground.  10-25-12

Yellow all the way to Baltimore,
the yellow road,
the yellow Eskimo, the bronze,
the stolen one.  10-25-12

The pink Sieboldii’s
open.  10-25-12

Where was I walking
yesterday when I heard catbird?
No catbirds here now.  10-25-12

The great white storm whirled through.
Yet, still here—
the yellow and orange wood.  10-30-12

Peace now.
Behind the green honeysuckle,
hickory’s golden self is alight
under gray light.  10-30-12

Sea green, cinnamon, gold—
autumn’s other colors threaded through
rain-darkened trunks.  10-31-12

The cloud moved.
The light moved.
Hickory’s empty branches are silver now
in the dry raining light.  10-31-12

It’s like painting,
loose, with colors,
and the other things that shine in the light,
in the dark,
moving things that sigh
with enough breath
sharing mine. 10-31-12

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