Autumn
The moving skies, big, bound, Bend round circles vast, Stirring bold ghosts of the brain Back to memory of harvest. Strong autumn gusts Press proud palms to hill-tops, Breaks through quickened leaves With rich scatter of color, Rich fire and fragrance Lifting the soil into song. When clouds are burst Be said to weep or howl Some transcendence down upon us? As dry blades of grass sweep into rivers In some majesty of yore? The shifting sun and shadow Drops rain on silent green growth Against red brick walls. Still, solemn measure Of mist laden corners. You can feel it there in the shadow, Trembling, poised On the edge of cold air, Bruised and Silent. Big high tides of fast gray skies above. And when the leaves are blowing Down old familiar street, Catching forms are suffused with immensities, Vertical in origin, And funnel down to us like apples; Rips open the eternal vaults And blows us back to Garden. New winds grab Hair and hips and lungs. Close trees shelter quiet homes And tuck skeletons bravely away In autumn back yards. And whose blood lives in those green bushes? That knows small gatherings and sweet harvests? As hidden bird is known by voice alone. And warm blankets of sunlight, As over fertile mid-western valleys Where the vines are over ripe, Yearning for gentle slopes and wide grassy hills. The hungry clouds want more earth. In the shadow of a ruby sunset The rag-man stumbles off to the cold weather end Of graveyards and hurt trees, Almost as recollection Of cold waters as song, And night-lit streets as measure.


I appreciate the clipped phrasing, which grated first and then won with by a quite intensity.