Fall Meditation

It is autumn and
sketches in umber smudge
my eyes. Four umber leaves
fret the wind among this green
withering. An oxblood boot
leans against the garage,
tongue lolled and empty as a well,
two sharp stones lodged in its sole.
Pierced apples darken and fall.
And here, the pears foul in drought.

So often I regale the death of things.
So often when the fruits of summer
disbelieve their own demise,
I look to my hands and other
sinuous rivers, I look to my arms
and the blue straw in my wrists
and wonder, when then, when
will my fat-lobed palms curl
around that last ounce of sunlight
and drain, unwilled — umber

In unbecoming, umber in the swift
turn toward winter, umber before
the eyes of those I love — regaled
as if one paperthin death still latched
to a limb was cause for jubilation.

Image: Johannes Óvegur on Unsplash

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