North country. Water town.

The road glistens, like a mirror in some places, for the yellow trees above. With the window cracked, people listen to our music as they pass. Eavesdrop fragments of our conversation. Another sort of mirror. The words of other people when they think no one is listening. Rained all night. The road is glistening. Cars are ripping sheets of paper driving past. Shushing soggy leaves. Gone. Dry in one day of sunshine and dust rises from the dirt road. The whole landscape flushes like a commode, and weeks of rain does what water does best. It moves on. In autumn, leaves dream of being flowers and take on such vibrant colors, and petal upturned as they faint and fall in turn. Laying down carpet like middle aged men with stained rock hands.

It rains for days and the world never even thinks to apologize for it. Mean old world. Cold. Mouthy. Always tent flapping yapping black bird wing clapping branch snapping firelight and hot chocolate when you need it sappy. Sweet things. Mean words. Sour apologies turned sweet wine by time. North country. Water town. Rain cloud crowns. And cold upstate royalty. Hard ice loyalty. Turned summertime thaws. Winter snows. But rain falls. And roads glisten.
And the iron trees dress up in colors bright as flowers.

Fall Poems #oldjournals

Now the ground crackles underfoot.
Leaves tumble across the road like bold squirrels.
Trees strip naked seductively slow as bright colored clothes
fall to the floor.

The afternoon sun has appreciated.
And the nights have inspired fires.
The cold makes coals the word hot does not describe.
Dead trees and live trees start to look alike.
Snow becomes a word to wince at or stare dreamy eyed over.

Dogwoods turn red, maples grow yellow,
oaks of all sorts float down and blanket brown
while the grass plays dead.

The silent green leaves that once crowned
the wispy thin heights of trees have been rejected and fallen.
Let go for the wind to blow, to germinate the earth like pollen.

And now the ground crackles underfoot from it.

Time is our favorite way of putting the world on the spot.

Time is about to pick up pace and not slow down.
Until autumn starts to settle its yellow orange red brown crown,
this is the realm of the sun. And long lines of cracked dust
gold arch counting isolated clouds wilting shade from above
days have only just begun. Raining almost every sort of thing but water.

Yellow ejaculate off shamefully quiet, rouged leaved oak trees,
wood ash off brushfires, the voices off birds and little fluff balls
off wood ducks crash thirty odd smooth feet onto leaves,
day light and bright stars fighting for positions in forgotten constellations,
dead quiet, almost everlasting, off of the mind’s horizon.

Time is straightening out to dive in, kick legs like frightened fins
so deep the water pressure pops somewhere,
inside the ears of time, deaf, short of breath,
buried beneath the weight of chock blue salt bearing water.
Time dies, and is about to return to life, again,
just as the studious, slow illusion of progression
has done before, and before, and before.

Returned. Resurrected. Risen.
To break face above the surface.
And once time starts to pick up pace,
it doesn’t slow down for any of us.