Poetry

Autumn and its thousand adjectives have come
to this, a swither in the trees,
their limbs bronchial and backlit in the gloam.

Heavenly earth flutters in the mind, word-borne.

Here it does not rest, a past
I summoned with a bell
so that things awaken

This is the age of ashes.
Ashes of burned children,
of cold trials of hell,

Aging women mourn while they go to market,
buy fish, figs, tomatoes, enough today to
feed the wolf asleep underneath the table
who wakes from what dream?

Let the downpour roil and toil!
The worst it can do to me
Is carry some garden soil

Lord, I have loved your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high