The Arrival




On a sunless breeze light
from the shade tree mumbles,
and between hot shadows
the hard edge of an old voice
breaks itself open again.

Turning, the sky spoils
rotting greens and orange,
and as the trees are caught
with red leaves loose,
their titan shoulders twist
and tense at the bends.

In autumn, the days wrinkle back
into themselves like paper burning,
and I spend long nights afraid.

words © 2000 Brock Bowman
image © 2000 Jon Reischl