in the yellowing

The first yellow leaves separate

from their tree-bodies

dry and light like sloffed skin

lifting off into blue space

one by one, elliptical

confetti in a continual float

at the end of the parade,

spinning across the barn’s

coffinal roof where walnuts thunk

like falling teeth, spiraling

around empty sunflower heads

lolling against shoulderless stalks,

or circling round and round nothing

like ashes—nothing that looks like

something, for the wind—

until after almost all down

hovering above the grassy ground

they bump against yellowjackets—

madly drunken satellites droning

in a shapeless galaxy around soft pears,

already languishing in ferment under them

at the end or may I rather say

at the beginning of their slow mellowing ride

If I could change one thing

If I could change one thing

in the raising of our children

it would be me, change me

cooking supper in the pearl light

of the kitchen, away

from them the first time

all day, wrestling with daddy

in the other room, and again

after supper, escaping

to wash the fragile dishes, alone,

ferociously alone, without them

with me, learning slowly together
about this practical, breakable life.

The unsolved mystery of sumac’s fire

“Come,”

I invited silently.

(so sure)

“Speak to me,”

I implored then

with a little sound.

(less sure)

“Show me what is inside,”

I pleaded out of a rising spring

of words living with hope.

(even less certain)

My feet heavy with dew.

Morning sun walled behind the pines

though its arms wrapped around the meadow

and would soon snuff out

evidence on the sumac

     —flames upon flames—

                beads of water shining

                    atop each burning leaf

 “Evidence!”

      I cried!

in frustrated tears!

O excruciating desire

No,

not to hear them say!

not to hear them say

To hear myself

say some, any thing

from inside

that disappearing flame.

Too much salt in the oatmeal

Too much salt in the oatmeal

and too much heat for September.

I make these judgments

surrounded by thriving stands

of bamboo, pine and cedar.

There has been enough

rain so all is green.

My belly fills and sloshes

— grain milled for easy prep

and milk, berries, pecans —

deconstructing what I feed it

as it always does, morning

after morning. The orchard

drops and drips fruit. Frost

will come perfecting the apples, that’s

a fact, nothing subjective in it.

There is too much salt

in the oatmeal, and too much heat

for September. It can be argued

that these are the fault of man.

But there are also the berries,

the blackberries sweet

and soft, the ones we picked

from among thorns.,

knowing how they would

balance everything.

[Note 1: Trying it without the final couplet; see comments.]
[Note 2: Adjusted penultimate stanza; see how that works.]

If I were to swim for misery

If I were to swim

for misery in the sea

would it be less

than for bliss?

Each wave marked

with its own beginning

and end, I would skim

only the thinnest

taperings, not

the expanse, the ever

out and down, the bottomless

dive, the somersault

in velvet black. If

where waves end

were always it

right where sea

dissolves in sand

where the smallest

life invisibly thrives,

if I championed loss

crawling and crabbing

along the ever diminishing

feed — if this were all

I had, would it then

be misery?