Poem #88

Out of the woods…

A westerly wind wafts through the trees,
“Throw out your lousy leaves!”

And orange and red and yellow and brown
our inspiring ill creature continually fathoms
what length of loss to fall, to dive,
to breach the bedrock bottoms
the doctors and their diagnoses rhymed
with down.

Sunshine, even from November glum,
dries a puddle–

in which our autumn litter
will deliquesce and amalgam with chill
and out of its erosion replenish the soil.
O how devine, the dirt.
Fortuitous at the forest fallow,
hearing what is loose and dead twitch and diminish
underneath our feet.

And out of the woods what brown grass forms a bar
on the going and coming of a stream-like street.


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