I am not a short thought
in the mind of God. I am
not all light and love.
I see the red-winged black birds,
sentries above the bramble. Do I
stand guard, do I block the light?
I do not hold together in one piece,
see how my love lay filtered out:
patience, kindness, mercy,
and the sediment:
pride, anger, judgment.
My cup is not clear,
but see the cloudy drink
break the light into color:
whose light breaks that does not shine?
Autumn creeps toward us this year. The white birch
turns from green to yellow and goldens into November.
I watch the bright leaves shout to me through the front window,
and everyday for two weeks I think how I will write about it.
Now the wind comes, and well over half of the leaves
cover the ground in a splendid circular swath of color.
The wind has taken the rest: oak, maple, buckeye, plum.
I see straight through all the branches into the sky.
