we both have. Early autumn, his
lithe little fingers come in evening
seeking toward the main like root
in reverse, or always was there.
And they do recall where the thawed
parts are and where the loveliness
lives, or once did (down Hermitage,
past Rose Hill cemetery, near Enid's)
The bastard son of what spring was
proffering as metaphorical alternative
to what spring wanted but was not;
new birth, quivering still-wet forelimbs,
new hope, blatancy of public affection,
the fiery plumage of an Indian Paintbrush
in a sea of other brushes on the prairie
Dare he still stay? as any seasonal changing—
like autumn—hadn't been intrinsic in our living?
Like what lived there, leaves; left, still chloriphyllic.
An idyll! in autumn! The waxed sandstone columns
and rostrum scattered in a changing scene.
So this tableau is—always has been. So drunk
on renewing emotions' euphoric ebulliency in dying.
A doves flight still flying, bearing berried boughs
and heavy billows of white cotton in the waning sky
enlightening the load of dotage, ornamenting naked
youths in piles of leaves.
