AUTUMN LEAF

What if the colors

of an autumn leaf

were the backdrop 

to everything?

When the rains came

surely wouldn't 

our tears of grief  

turn into love?

ANGER

I found him 
in the tundra
in a tiny bird cage, 
emaciated,
wizen and shivering.
He was young
and very old,
and afraid.

This was my anger.

An outcast 
in an Arctic outpost
holding down the fort,
waiting for his 
orders to come 
over the "wire."

If only I could
ignite his fire
maybe then
he would melt
the bars of the cage,
fly free and sing
his song of love,
like he was always
meant to do.

MIGRATION

As it flew across

the rose-colored sky

toward the tall trees

that lined the river,

its large, white wings

looked like a bone

breaking and mending,

breaking and mending

as it climbed into

the liminal light.

Suddenly, it disappeared

into the veil of a lone cloud,

the bone breaking 

one last time.

My body took a breath…

and then I imagined 

the creature landing

in its perch

with wings outstretched

and flapping

somewhere 

on the other side

finding its balance

on the bouncing branch, 

while the tree beneath it,

its temporary home,

let go of the last 

of its autumn leaves. 

LOOKING 

Just there 
in the grass,

a fallen leaf. Rust 

against green

baking 
in the sun.

But then 
the autumn edges

 taunt me 

into seeing 

something

that is not tree.

The trace of a face.
Something animal.

The minute I see it 
the leaf is gone. 

All that remains 

is the wink

and the ears 

at attention. 

The fox is now 

the one looking.

A MYSTIC IN THE WOODS

Michelangelo saw

figures in blocks

of marble.

Sculpting, for him,

was a kind of

rescue mission,

a freeing 

of prisoners

from rock.

I went walking

in the woods

the other day

and came 

upon a tree.

It was like seeing

a mystic lost

in meditation,

their arms

united inside

large monastic

sleeves, their head

down, while

the universe spun

its magnificent circles

between the bark

of belly and bowed

crown.

I am not Michelangelo,

and the tree

is not 

marble,

so there was 

nothing

to free.

There was only

the contemplation

I was left with:

the universe

is in me 

rooted and ready

to make wider 

and wider rings.