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.