Entering fall. Still bright and sunny days ahead of us. But if you listen, if you let the world touch your skin, you will notice there is also melancholy in the air. Darkness approaching.
The late September night is a train of thought, a wound
That doesn’t bleed, dead grass that’s still green,
No off-shoots, no elegance,
the late September night,
Deprived of adjectives, abstraction’s utmost and gleam.
It has been said there is an end to the giving out of names.
It has been said that everything that’s written has grown hollow.
It has been said that scorpions dance where language falters and
It has been said that something shines out from every darkness,
that something shines out.
Leaning against the invisible, we bend and nod.
Evening arranges itself around the fallen leaves
Alphabetized across the back yard,
That braille us and sign us, leaning against the invisible.
Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world.
Morning arrives and that’s it.
Sunlight darkens the earth.
Sometimes pain and beauty seems to spring from the same source. To me every line in this poem is a treasure, every verse a world. I don’t think it is possible – from a poetic point of view – to come much closer to perfection.
sketcher, reader, writer