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2005
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2005
Editor's
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SNR's
Writers
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the
bride of autumn
The first scattered
whispers
of color in the trees,
the sparks of a rumor
waiting to blaze.
Change is coming.
Eveything you
know
will contradict itself
before it changes back.
The
truth is the process.
The circle. The wedding dance
of
space and time and pattern.
Then the beloved world
changes
into something more
familiar, and you smiled
the last
time as well.
the
same wind
The same hills.
The same
snow.
The same bird in the same tree.
Beyond, the
same firs bristle
by apple blossom trees
naked with loss
and desire of green,
of red and white coins falling,
a
casual fortune.
The wind touches cracking skin
knowing
what will come
will drive it out.
noise
Someday,
you'll write your last poem,
kiss your
last kiss, look
at a sun that won't
return.
You'll be gone between the time
that a leaf will begin to fall
like an
aimless, intoxicated
sparrow, and when it
will land.
The world will go on, busy
where you've seen it,
where somebody else
has watched,
where nobody's ever seen,
busy, lazy, at all of its speeds,
seconds and eras intermingled.
The heart is a clock, and
yours
will simply stop, a gear
will spring off down the hill,
rolling and
shiny, rattling
to the bottom - then spin,
then hiss into stillness.
Where
your noise was, there will be noise.
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