Dividing Lines

Dividing Lines

I am standing

on the edge of fall—

the margin

between two counties:

one filled with honey bees;

the other

leaves that will whirl down

and color my path

with a crunch like cellophane,

perspiring with beads of rain,

blown and dancing.

Red berries dropping here

have a sound,

leaves twirling from

their temporary host

give off an aroma

of winter’s approach—

their smell in summer, sparkling

with little tongues of light

kissing them, is not the same

smell that signals from them,

when their host hints

they have stayed

too long.

 

The aroma of fall

and winter’s approach

goes with me to my car–

Too soon, too soon,

it all feels too soon.

 

And here you are now

wet and slippery softness.

Promising to blanket us

into dream

where seeds dropped

slumber,

where roots dig deeper

sucking on the nourishment

of its earthly home

listening to what

runs

leaving its footprint

on frozen ground snow

and hideaways,

where creatures

peep out

or sleep

in dreams of spring.

 

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