The old gold leaves are heavy, damp,

the last cranberries almost hidden

under them—bright scarlet shapes

below a tracery of ice—the sunlight

cold, faint, as if from a galaxy away.


I follow the path under the storm-

turned birch trees, find the soft brown

of the tender down from the inside

of an eagle’s wing; in the quiet

I hear the echoing cry of geese

arrowing southwards—



becomes the quick shaft driving

the coming winter home—



warmed beneath the moss, the seeds

settle, knowing that spring and summer

always follow the coldest



a yellow leaf ends the moment,

touches my face as it falls to earth.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s