The fierce winds blew early Autumn
onto the road
where she gathered
on tiny ponds,
freshly sprung
from morning rains.
Each puddle arranged a collage–
of jeweled reds and yellows and oranges
from maple and birch and oak.
A spray of pine needles completed the work.
This is how the walk to the farm stand
became an art show,
and this is how
a middle-aged woman,
in puddle boots,
becomes
a
child.
Kelly Salasin, October 2012
of decay
and the permission to eat
chocolate.
as I approach down the slope
of wet leaves.
Immediately,
I want to consumate our movement–
drink her up,
have her take
me.
Neither will do,
so I continue up the road
on this Hallow’s Eve,
sensing the transparency
of the worlds
in my bones
as the air mysteriously moves
through
me,
mocking the illusion of
separation.
drawn up
by Autumn’s fiery reds,
my gaze
sinks
to the earth–
to her rich
colors of
death.
the place and beauty
of my own
mother’s
passing
while noticing a half-dozen
trees
missing
from the banks
of the pond–
beavers,
hired
to clear my view.
I pass four trunks
huddled together,
branches wrapped around
each other’s
back,
bare–
except for lichen,
a soft, sickly green
creeping up each body,
dangling
from each limb.
I wonder~
Does the ghost of sweet
Jesse
roam
these
hills
like me?
Oct. 31, 2009
This Vermont Life 