On Michaelmas (with a phrase from Rilke)

a new poem

ON MICHAELMAS
(with a phrase from Rilke)

Landscape unsheathed 
from summer’s haze, a place
both known and unknown

as late September flares—
a slow flame writhing 
from the outside in. 

Spectral yellows 
and the first red flush 
sparking across 

the maples. I walk 
to remain watchful 
of the changes—

what moves through
from the outside in. 
Lord, it is time 

to succumb 
to the new season, 
to imagine it speaks 

in the space where I 
spoke before—
the voice grown ragged,

thinned into a syllable.
I walk and I notice 
the dark and disjointed 

alleyways 
in this sinking canal town 
lit by leaf-patterns 

sparked against 
gray drizzle. Lord,
it is time: summer 

was too long,
and the new season 
disorients me

into a new frequency.
I walk and watch  
as winter’s bare altar

is prepared.