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The Leaves Are Falling

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Here I am saying “The leaves are falling”   
—one of those choruses   
that vie with interminable verses   
to mock hoarders.   
Yeah, we get   
that a palette of winds   
is a pretty thing:   
one blurs the anther, another   
the river splurging on riprap,   
expunging   
phosphates,   
out of the temperature   
differential building   
sculptural fogs   
that promenade   
between shores a glacier   
wedged ajar, a fjord.   
Whatever gives the river   
its seriousness reverses   
in the light   
of those clouds moving   
as if absorbing   
their pomp in advance of it—   
characters   
which untied the painter   
and took the sculls again.

Source: Poetry (December 2008)
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The Leaves Are Falling

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