Monday, November 8, 2010


Green veins hold golden leaves
as iridescent fingers
in suspended incandescence,

frequencies of decay
in layered variegation
tipped with touches of blood.

The trees sway,
boughs lean like jet wings in the wind
as shivering timbers send sailors diving to the sea

to land so softly,
to be cupped in a hand
full of surrendering pages

curled and batter-fried,
frothed with burlap tatters
over moss that reads like a map.

All collapses to the soil
or drips into the stream
to decompose to oneness,

pulled under the fern-patterned surface
that gives all the rust colors back;
Speaking through, not to, each other.