The Fall
You ask for signs and see
Blowing across a frozen lake
Some scattered leaves
Burning, as if the wind could
Start a fire,
Or the ice could give off heat.
It’s time for the fall so
The leaves don’t surprise you
As they fly from branches,
released by death to ride
uncertain winds
like the kites of careless boys
in late November
who are too distracted by the
cold to hold on tightly --
Leaves bounding in a random
dance,
Trying to bounce their way across
the promised winter.
It’s the movement of fire in the
timing of your head
That makes you wonder if this is
a portent
Or an answer,
Or just some strangeness
unreported –
Some farmer burning trash,
Or a city in flames making its
own weather--
(The ashes of civility blowing in
from the middle gives you pause,)
or a star exploding to show you
the face of God --
Whirling flamed chariots of
dancing death to make a point to you alone.
But this sign is not for you,
it’s just wordlessness
From the muscle that runs beneath
--
the muscle that boxes and binds
the gods.
And the only meaning
Is in the movement of dead leaves
As they blow into piles for a
latter thaw
to be born again as something
else.
No thoughts or dreams can cover
up
The truth that we are simple meat
Given enough in senses to
occasionally see
the sparks that fly from frozen
lakes,
to know that the beauty of the
fall
lies in the promise of a spring.
Michael S Brady 2010
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