Fall leafskip.
November air has wrapped up the
sky in a blue satin bow.
Orphaned in icy waters,
grey flannel stones stand murmuring guard
over salamanders and disgraced samurai bones.
Photons flare a crisp greeting and
are off to Vega,
humming a De Broglie tune.
The hills are dressed to the nines.
Millenial toughs,
they arch their hulking backs
and settle down to glower at each other.
A long-necked river bird,
stunted scion of a T-Rex,
silently wings by,
carrying the valley with it.
Ambushed by the sun,
Liberace-hued leaves mournfully exploded.
The November air had
tied up the sky
with a cerulean knot.
Winter coughed and peered at us from
behind a naked cherry tree.
Its dusky robes
a trick of the light,
a crow abruptly carved the silence
into a million longing wounds.
I crossed the northern ridge
and fall fluttered into view.
You who feel that line:
I wonder what you
would have done later with
the rich silence that
gentled on the mountain
and the spider trembling
in her iridescent web.
