North country. Water town.

The road glistens, like a mirror in some places, for the yellow trees above. With the window cracked, people listen to our music as they pass. Eavesdrop fragments of our conversation. Another sort of mirror. The words of other people when they think no one is listening. Rained all night. The road is glistening. Cars are ripping sheets of paper driving past. Shushing soggy leaves. Gone. Dry in one day of sunshine and dust rises from the dirt road. The whole landscape flushes like a commode, and weeks of rain does what water does best. It moves on. In autumn, leaves dream of being flowers and take on such vibrant colors, and petal upturned as they faint and fall in turn. Laying down carpet like middle aged men with stained rock hands.

It rains for days and the world never even thinks to apologize for it. Mean old world. Cold. Mouthy. Always tent flapping yapping black bird wing clapping branch snapping firelight and hot chocolate when you need it sappy. Sweet things. Mean words. Sour apologies turned sweet wine by time. North country. Water town. Rain cloud crowns. And cold upstate royalty. Hard ice loyalty. Turned summertime thaws. Winter snows. But rain falls. And roads glisten.
And the iron trees dress up in colors bright as flowers.

Ground Fire

Shhh. Shushes the wind. Fall is falling in. When it only wanted to get its feet wet. 

Now we are drenched in wind.

Squeaks the trees. Groaning grinding bark 

above their tangled feet. Fire in the ground. 

Roots get hollowed out. 

And all you see is smoke.

She said it was worst form of fire.

Hugging its own arms and legs as it gets torn apart. Eaten by the breeze like a river swallowing creeks. There is an ocean in the sky.

Birds swim, they don’t fly. 

Trees filter like ferns for light. 

And vines vy for their height.

Same as eyes. Stared up. 

Open. And out.

While autumn shushes all, gold leaves fall,

and tall trees shake bare fists and shout.

Time has come. And like strong steady wind.

It whispers.
Move. Or be moved along

Fall Poems #oldjournals

Now the ground crackles underfoot.
Leaves tumble across the road like bold squirrels.
Trees strip naked seductively slow as bright colored clothes
fall to the floor.

The afternoon sun has appreciated.
And the nights have inspired fires.
The cold makes coals the word hot does not describe.
Dead trees and live trees start to look alike.
Snow becomes a word to wince at or stare dreamy eyed over.

Dogwoods turn red, maples grow yellow,
oaks of all sorts float down and blanket brown
while the grass plays dead.

The silent green leaves that once crowned
the wispy thin heights of trees have been rejected and fallen.
Let go for the wind to blow, to germinate the earth like pollen.

And now the ground crackles underfoot from it.