Thursday, November 13, 2008

Poems for the Season

Spent leaves
Don't so much whistle
As hum down, circling,
Fingering air's insubstantiality,
Athirst for epitaph.

Fall's pathetic finery:
Time's never chastened appetite
For self-extension, self-perpetuation.

Grasping, we clutch at empty space
Frantic for reward,
For shimmering signs
It must be done, it will be told.

And all the while our words limp forth,
Echoes where the hills to ring them back
Have fallen long since down to dust.

+ + + + +

What word
Have you
For me today,
Yellow leaves in fall's cold rain?

When will the heron sing its song
As it struts atop the stump
Upon the burnished mirror of the lake?

Does the wind hold revelation,
Humming through the trees' wild hair,
Sweeping past the nighttime roof?

Nothing speaks,
Or has more import,
Than this ever-shining world
Outside my door.

Yet it, too, passes from my sight
Before I've even fixed its image
In my glass.