Even on a bare autumn morning
as the breath lifts
in grey
trees have taken their winter stature
and the geese
have all passed by
even on such a morning
even though leaves lie
like scattered tiles on the ground skies are quiet
and spring
is not a word in anyone’s mind, even then
on a colorless stretch
of hill
beyond the time of flowers
how remarkable
that even then, after the hour
of riotous waters, when the valleys are dull
and still of life, crickets
have given up their quest, and robins
are nowhere to be seen,
even among the scheduled order of a day
after the blind of summer colors
and the dreams
of streaming light, so urgent
after all this
as you walk along plain streets
and gutters
even then
you find it waking
you find these leaves lifting
dry leaves of a maple
that rise at your feet
sweep in circles, whispers
of invisible wings beating
your chest, your cheeks,
even on such a bare autumn morning
on such an empty stretch of land
only hours before dark.

∞

From the Spring 2004 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 20, No. 2)

© 2004 Laura Foley