Pretty sure its not your attitude but the way
you cross your arms that makes the crows
fly from the dead hickory and the old carp
rise to the surface of the oil glazed water. Not
a pretty picture and not too satisfying when
the gnarled pine needles sharpen and the asters
dodge the wind. So sudden the seasons
change and your scars are tattooed
across the autumn horizon, not willowy
but weary as the old oak muttering to the sparrows
about the vagaries of the north wind. What on earth
could this mood foretell? Wishing wells and copper
pennies could do no harm as the cross eyed cat
walks a fine line and drifts across the scorched red
maple leaves and into the yellowing wood.
trumpeting from the gray skies
wild geese rise from the cove
call to worship
robed in scarlet leaves
bob in the morning rain
heads bowed in prayer
mists hover over the gray water
rising to meet the clouds
I sweep autumn leaves from the porch
and listen to the crows caw
from across the dry meadow,
the only birds still in residence.
The trees are empty.
The birds have abandoned me.
Are there runes scraped into the bark of the cedar,
just outside the window?
‘Beware all life is fleeting, flee!’
Soon the mirrors will be covered
and voices hushed
in winters sorrow.
I miss their songs.
I miss feeling their presence-
the feathers left in my path
as if angels were near,
watching and protecting.
But the trees are now deserted-
all the winged creatures
alone to keep vigil
in the beginning of the fall.