IT IS A SEASON FOR STRANGE DREAMS
It is a season for strange dreams:
The white elk who crashed through
the front window and stood staring
with pale blue eyes before dissolving
out the back door. The child
who offered to give me his tricycle
for my daily commute. The president-
elect as an audiologist who cleaned
the wax from my ears and loaned me
his denim coat because I said I was cold.
The tree is dropping her leaves to save
herself for winter. She has nothing
to do with me. What’s the point in saving
things? The trees don’t.
Everything they need now
is underground. I will not be defined by
souvenirs. Between the pages of books
I no longer read, old leaves crumble to brown.
Memory is sepia.
Turn the leaves to ground.
NOVEMBER 10, 2016
Don’t forget the river:
it takes whatever it can carry,
drops what it can not.
Look up at the crows
stale bread and roadkill
into charmeuse feathers
and obsidian eyes.
Think of the willows.
Whenever they break,
they grow anew.
Remember the sunset,
the last vivid glow in the west,
yellow light under purple cloud
gilding the last of the leaves
on the east side of the garden.
Don’t forsake the moon
shimmering into sight above the pines.
She’s nearly full tonight.
Let all that she will become
fill you with longing for the dawn.