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psalm_onethirtyoneoh hey look A FERRARI no wait it's more poetry.
Autumnal
The land is cold.
Cracked leaves scuttle by sideways, and
the empty trees cast themselves against the sky like shadows.
The fields are full of brown stubble, the
blunt straws of harvested wheat, where
bindweed crawls blindly and upturned stones lie dull and white.
The stumps of cornstalks jut up among
scattered red and yellow kernels of dent corn left
by the rabbits that still into invisibility
when they hear muffled boots in the muddy road.
No one speaks. On the hilltops
the rutted tractor paths are out of work, half washed away from the
long rain. The deer wander and search.
Wild turkeys hunt through the dusky undergrowth.
The songbirds disappear, one
by one, like dropped fruits,
thinning the air of trills and whistles. The
wind cuts sharp eddies in the long grass.
People behind their oriel windows
write long books to explain the meaning of the world.
Outside the glass, pumpkins and melons rot in the fields.
First frost hits the chrysanthemums and
sends them sprawling, flowered stems spread in a
bright-rimmed crater, and apples wrinkle,
wither, and become cider. Fingers ache.
Breath turns to mist. The last spiderwebs
bead and pearl in the dawn light.
Winter falls over the earth like silence.
On the hill, the bittersweet berries hang,
lanterns lighting the way to the last trace
of October.
---
Dogged
The gold glow of the seven o'clock
late autumn sun catches sight of me and
follows me across campus,
shining in my hair and the metal edges of my
watch and zippers, getting in
my face and begging, like the eyes
of an eager family collie, afraid of being left behind,
catching in my bicycle spokes,
jumping at the heels of my sneakers,
skidding through the leaves and
crying:
where are you going? where are you
going? take me with you! take
me with you!
---
Have I mentioned lately that this poetry study is the best thing that ever happened to me?
Autumnal
The land is cold.
Cracked leaves scuttle by sideways, and
the empty trees cast themselves against the sky like shadows.
The fields are full of brown stubble, the
blunt straws of harvested wheat, where
bindweed crawls blindly and upturned stones lie dull and white.
The stumps of cornstalks jut up among
scattered red and yellow kernels of dent corn left
by the rabbits that still into invisibility
when they hear muffled boots in the muddy road.
No one speaks. On the hilltops
the rutted tractor paths are out of work, half washed away from the
long rain. The deer wander and search.
Wild turkeys hunt through the dusky undergrowth.
The songbirds disappear, one
by one, like dropped fruits,
thinning the air of trills and whistles. The
wind cuts sharp eddies in the long grass.
People behind their oriel windows
write long books to explain the meaning of the world.
Outside the glass, pumpkins and melons rot in the fields.
First frost hits the chrysanthemums and
sends them sprawling, flowered stems spread in a
bright-rimmed crater, and apples wrinkle,
wither, and become cider. Fingers ache.
Breath turns to mist. The last spiderwebs
bead and pearl in the dawn light.
Winter falls over the earth like silence.
On the hill, the bittersweet berries hang,
lanterns lighting the way to the last trace
of October.
---
Dogged
The gold glow of the seven o'clock
late autumn sun catches sight of me and
follows me across campus,
shining in my hair and the metal edges of my
watch and zippers, getting in
my face and begging, like the eyes
of an eager family collie, afraid of being left behind,
catching in my bicycle spokes,
jumping at the heels of my sneakers,
skidding through the leaves and
crying:
where are you going? where are you
going? take me with you! take
me with you!
---
Have I mentioned lately that this poetry study is the best thing that ever happened to me?
