Send me a heart of gratitude for this long afternoon
of goldenrod light falling across my typewriter
and a sky so blue I want to bite it like an apple.
Once in a while the tufted sky would break open into dazzling radiance. I would often look up from my reading to behold a waterfall of fiery light, as if the Golden Fleece were hanging in a waterfall shedding all its precious minerals into the valley below.
this is where I can
still see you
in these gray branches
My village lies there in all its stony composure under the first thunderstorm of fall. It meant cold weather was coming, creeping in like a procession of ghosts under the rumbling sky.
After rain dries,
the shadows of leaves
star the white cement
Gray rain seeps through the fall
of played-out clouds, loops among hills,
ragged mountains; flexes and thins cut, contoured fields.
He tears off summer’s dress,
exposes trunk and limb, threatens
worse coming. Yet he brings gifts…
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know:
The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle…
It’s fall here in southern France. The tourists have thinned out to a trickle of rubbernecks aiming their smart phones at almost anything green or shaggy with vines. They hardly … Continue reading