October 30
To take in what’s left
of October, the colors
that trail behind and
within me, as I
walk beneath the flares sent up
with a vividness
the senses stumble
to apprehend. The red-singed
yellows—I hear them
more than see them—and
somehow the sound lodges in
my throat. How does sound
come from color and
pass through the body, making
the flesh transparent
to passing weather.
Only in October, this
negotiation
between apparent
loss and accumulation—
gathering silence
to prepare a place
for the looming silence to
bear down its cold.
Excellent Joseph! Thank you.
It's weird, until I read this poem moments ago, I never thought of the dual status of fall, that it is the end of summer, and that it also has its own end, followed by winter. Now it seems so obvious. Also, nice one! I'm reading your poems and looking at your pictures in the Pacific Northwest, where the leaves are still amazing, so I get both the amazing leaves and the sense of their imminent loss, too. Serendipity.