In This Version of Autumn

It’s as if the fields of five decades 
have been broomed clean—dry as straw. 
But in the border woods, ground holds scent: 
leaf-humus and pine, 
an after-hint of smoke, or ash. 

Evening: you feel sky distancing itself, 
no breeze; hammered gold barely trembles 
in the shrunken lake. 
Two leaves alight—red wings. 

In the dawn: white breath 
and a tracery of frost along the edge stones . . . 
beauty in change that comes 
almost to pain. 
Stilled water will begin to freeze 
from the top down, long prism needles 
or cloudy patches closing, slow cataracts 
beneath a vellum light. 

Maybe this is the year you’ll walk 
where you have never walked. 
The lake will freeze. 
Stepping out upon it 
you will feel your pulse 
scud quickly across your life. 

Words spilt now must troll deeper 
than the surface cold. Over lake’s center, 
faint fog rises. A Rorschach of roots 
holds the shore together where you stand; 
curlews lift and cry their names.