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.