anatomy
In the tenement
of the body
generations have left
their mark.
On the stairwell
of bones and the
walls of flesh
illegible words
are scrawled
in invisible ink.
Windows look down
on concrete gardens
where live buds
force themselves
from sticks
of trees.
The genes are doing
their scheduled work.
Clutch the banister,
hold on tight.
late september song
With the sound of
a freight train
rushing
through the trees,
the first strong
wind
of autumn
makes each
leaf
sing the song
of its own
execution.
bronze bells of autumn
Alhough I've made a kind of peace
with those I loved who are already dead,
bronze bells of autumn, in their minor key,
toll for the losses still ahead.
The weather tells a narrative of change;
the wind prepares a path the geese will take.
This frost is beautiful, and yet it kills.
The harvest moon drowns in the lake.
I love the dark (it moves so gradually)
but love still more all it will erase:
these swarming leaves, this pungent smoky air,
the youth you were, your aging face.