On another crimson-gold day with leaves falling through sunshine

it is good
how things shrivel
dreams, one by one
diminished, discarded
merely achieved
this drawing down
with the season
(how the insect ceases
flailing under silk
as one who will not say
now i am content
if only—
not telling you
nor leaving
some void
how would you know?
an absence
of absence
you would still find beauty
or something close
enough, not needing
more words

The Very Last Fall on Earth

or why the brilliance
or why have we not
noticed not grabbed
and held in our hands
ideal of ripe life
with no trace of crumble

enough? for the eye
to skip from sky
round crimson clusters
and still green grass
gem-strewn with

that light we can’t
(it has been before)
too warm too dry
too full
to take in
deepest breath
of the day held
and held
to bursting

All these geese

basking roadside, pondside, sun-
side, ignoring thunderous trucks,
whizzing cars, even the thump
and whine of the garbage collector—
but humans are something else
altogether, and all together, uneasy
at my approach, they turn their heads,
long necks, move in smooth unison
closer to the water. A few startle,
take wing at a runner’s passing
breeze, plunge into the pond,
three white furrows and four more
behind, wings wide then down,
tail feathers shaken into place—
and what a goose I am, trail-walking
roadside, pondside, sun-side,
to startle as the first man runs up
and past, and again to turn my head,
uneasy, when the second, walking,
overtakes me.

The Remotest Island in the World

To say nothing of myself
or the self-contained teen
in the other room, of our place
in vast, fragile space
dwarfed by our sun, dwarfed
by other suns—

but let me tell you of our life
with penguins and potatoes
our southern seasons lonely
off the grid, yet in the global trend
(internet at the café, supply boats
twice a year). We’ve embraced

a taste for our own vodka
for homespun wool. No avoiding
your neighbor at the seaside
or singing below the volcano
though indeed no one knows
how I detest eating lobster


I read this article about Tristan da Cunha, and my imagination ran away just a bit.

Greening Again

We’re greening all over again
bulbs, birds unceasing, even dogs
having turned the corner on winter, with the trees

I round the trail’s corner, begin
to notice birds in the four-eyed tree, frogs
singing greenly in the reeds, all nature plain-meaning:

bend your head to the tree-sigh of still north-rooted breeze
catch the corner, quick, of golden sun in all this greening


My first-ever san san for NaPoWriMo Day 14.