(Goldfinches make an appearance and then again, in above.)
It seemed the first day of Autumn,
falling from height
to dream of passion
sadness of a morning after,
keeping company
with the wind
the quaking aspen,
reflections in the glass
the mind going over--
motions of searching bodies
mixing time with the Chinese bells
something reminding
the strewn poem, in the wind
intermixes into a complexity
and mystery
and style
of going about
it all, the ants marching on
carrying the
‘hopper high aloft--'
through hail stone storm and festival of summer end
can not go back to fix anything
summer fades, autumn onset
the many paintings missed,
that Sunflower’s bloom,
finch bobbing
in the wind, the toads gone,
bunny hopping along
pausing, the ancient fear in its eye
watching, I get up to make some lunch
in the silent house, the warm sun
across the table
looking out on the changing light
cloudy amphitheater of yard,
the flowers turning,
the magpie’s sawlike voices
announcing themselves,
I try to own it
decorating my head
with the revolving orders,
these cut out shapes
of cloud and hill and bush
a wreathe
of golden
flowers
feeling
the whole
once again
and
journey’s end
letting go
and satisfied
the moment
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