All Souls Day

a poem for the occasion

All Souls

Nothing’s left
on the maple limbs 
spindled 
in all directions
like a web 
spun over 
the horizon.
This is 
what remains:
the ritual
of scrawling 
in half-dark 
morning;
the window
an altar
for my eyes.
To sit still
long enough
to become
vacant, 
a vessel
for forms
of weather
to slip through
and leave
behind
an echo,
a pulse.
This is what
remains:
the poem
that proves
I’m alive
in the hollow
of a bright
page. I sit
still and watch
the window
in the room,
how the old glass
gently warps
the one tree
still heavy
with leaves:
yellow rusted
green—a flame
flaring out.