[ 9 /22 / 25 – first day of Fall]
the renovations continue on their own schedule
sitting on the back porch, listening to rain
light dappled by an increasingly distant sun
salvation is a blanket of fallen leaves
and sleep after another summer
Dante would have left out of the final draft
1.
moonset and sunrise:
the morning cut-like
down the middle, torn
the way seasons in transition
tear apart tired blankets
4.
the river is glass and silk
I dream of mountains
5.
I don’t recognize my reflection
in that certain light
The more I go on in the twenty-first century, the more I want to go back to a landline and a typewriter. Every digital character becomes an attempt to insist myself into an alien realm. I distract myself in late August by pondering the changes in the greens of the leaves. Sometimes the difference is simply the way the light hits; sometimes it’s the chlorophyll leeching out of the leaves. But I like to notice the gradual draining into orange and red and yellow and brown, and that precise moment when the leaves wear their last green of the season.
