Monthly Archives: September 2009

It’s my favorite season.
Others say that but they
only care about the aspens primping,
dressing up before going out,
and the new bite in the breeze.
It’s cool the way it blows
but that’s not what gets me.

By now, the spiffy colors
shouldn’t fool us
but of course, they do
and that’s the beauty of it.
Love and death
always have their reasons—
they both come through
and we go off
and make it an event.
We mark it on our calendars.

I watch the summer leave
the way I watch you
walk away . . . 
I make sure I feel
it in my bones.
It’s the only frame
of reference I can trust,
the only way to really
read the weather.
I hold a finger up
and mouth my aching truth.
You don’t hear me
call your name.

It’s not a time of year.
It’s not the equinox
or the harvest moon.
It’s not a pumpkin on a postcard
or a Sunday drive
up to the mountains.
It’s the slow descent,
the suicide, the Fall,
the going out
when we don’t see
what’s coming in.
It’s the time of turning,
remembering what we are,
knowing everything will change
and there is nothing more to know,
and nothing we can do.

That’s not who you are
someone said to me–
he seemed too sure.
You don’t show who you are,
someone else said–
he seemed perplexed

I checked the mirror for a clue
but there was no reflection
offering a cue or hint
of who was looking back
or what was true
I couldn’t tell

Another said, it changes
with the light,
the way your irises
engage your sweater.
No wonder they’re confused.
I empathized.
I wondered what to do . . .
how to get me coming through
so that I’m seen . . .
so there’s no doubt

I note what seems
to be the solid forms
of those who mill about me.
They must know the means
for making themselves clear.
They must understand
what makes a point of view
a point that’s fixed,
that doesn’t move,
that’s dense enough
to hold onto.

I tell myself
it’s all in the eyes–
the ones beholding.
I trust the audience
to find what resonates.
I take some comfort
in that sort of prayer.
It’s reassuring,
like a train you know
will be arriving,
a hope that I’ll be found
where someone’s looking.
I’ll be then and there . . .
in the flesh and blood,
some evidence of me
filling up the senses,
the substance of me
in good hands,
willingly unfolding.