Deciduous: A poem for Thanksgiving.


For John

We love summer’s slow fade,

Light scraping trees down a lake’s

Length. The leaves demise are colors

Echoing fragments of people’s dreams.

A rush of wind scatters them: tissues

Floating above the cooling ground.

In Venice, Aschenbach summers, sun

Waning on a murmer of youth, of skin.

Dye and rouge no match for years

Falling away. Desire, paramount

Among stone and history, or threats

Of disease, worries us no more.

A snake moults on the red rocks

Of Moab, oblivious to beauty.

Aging is our struggle. We are at

The place when sap hardens, limbs

No longer pulse. Brittle are stems

Breaking loose from branches.

Falling is percussive love,

Its very sweep are trees separating,

Mapping their circular life. They

Are nurse logs now giving us life.

In Ouray, yellow mixed in white and

Green, rocky spires angled up, heat

Pulsed like summer in love’s silence.


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