The dogwood in fall
red leaves and berries
Curled in waving
transcendent
swirl
Of how immeasurable death is,
how fertile its black soil.
The red and yellow flowers
stand like angels in the shag
Of withering greens,
shown bones of trees.
Each house allows its ghosts
a creaking jaunt about the place.
The smell of gold pine needles
and the sawdust of first harvest.
The blue mailbox
becomes the center of the world.
