A Brisk Autumn Walk

A brisk Autumn walk this morning,

two or three miles, what my doctor recommends

to ward off familial predispositions,

just a short jaunt in the chill air, to the corner

and back, and a detour to the point, pausing to look back

to where I started, across the cove dividing us,

to my home nestled along the far shore, tucked under trees

stripped bare now of summer’s green gone gold.

The leaves shake and rattle above me in the wind,

hearty leaves hanging on, and below, rustling,

shuffling as I go, dragging my feet through

a thick leaf cover, reds and browns and oranges dropped

and dried and crackling, autumn’s music, Pan played,

and I flush a grouse or partridge, unseen

where she lays hidden in the undergrowth, exposed now,

fleeing my noise, this invasion of space and time,

her wings beating a soft thunder in her escape,

hiding once more, once again, unmoving, watching me pass.

The air today is cold, above freezing, barely, it seems,

and a chill wind, wind chill dropping,

reminds me of winter to come, fast

approaching, winter blowing in, cold and harsh;

but today, I take a brisk Autumn walk

to ward off the familial, seeking peace

in the changing season, autumn

rustling my soul awake, flushing out my spirit,

readying myself for the season ahead, watching, waiting.

Autumn Fog ... Weeping

The fog sits low in the trees -

heavy sagging under her weight –

weeping, her tears cold and wet

in the early morning chill

as we step out, the dog and I,

a ritual pulling us out to walk

into the morning mist this day,

a late Autumn day begun in fog,

low in the trees, weeping, cold and wet;

and whom does she weep for but the changing season,

Autumn’s cooling of Summer into Winter snow,

the days grown short, darkness falling early

and rising late, us, too, warm under covers pulled tight,

a quilted warmth holding us in bed a little longer,

fearful of rising in the morning’s dark and cold,

yet getting up, venturing out, a ritual, the dog and I;

but who will weep for her, low in the trees, weeping herself,

seeking what little warmth there is

rising up from an earth turning colder, darker,

seeking, perhaps, herself, some comfort,

her great tears falling, weeping for us,

and the season changing, bound here,

seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking ourselves.

A Haunting

Everywhere has them, an old house,

empty and decayed, set back, alone

on a dark street, unlit, nor candle burning,

or abandoned among other homes, nicer homes,

in a neighborhood of children playing,

their laughter loud and raucous ceasing

as they pass on their way to school,

ceasing to resume again on the other side,

or crossing over to avoid it, its emptiness,

its darkness, that eerie feeling of an old house,

dark and empty, its porch sagging

under heavy footfall of ages past and rot,

years of moisture unstopped, unchecked, seeping,

and a roof to match, all tilted in, ready to topple,

patched or bare, shingles gone or flapping, lifted up,

up lifted, but the glass remains, intact

mostly, a pane or two broken, perhaps,

or gone, though the windows are closed up tight,

stuck fast, or boarded, and at night, looking out,

the spirits watch us from within, peeking

from the spirit world that holds them there,

keeps them in, silent and staring out,

obscured by shadows, a shadow world

we cannot enter, cannot know nor comprehend

except in our imaginations, our fears let loose,

fear of an old place, closed up, boarded shut,

inviting our imaginations in, even as it keeps us out,

out of the darkness where spirits watch,
specters with a past like ours, watching

and remembering, longing, perhaps, to leave,

wondering if they could, could step across

the broken sill and down the stairs,

crumbling steps long unused, unused to human feet,

leave and join us here passing by, walking

where we will, where we can, avoiding them,

those ethereal concoctions of imagination and fear,

imagination and fear giving them life, a shadow life,

a spirit world within ourselves,

staring out, even, wondering, if we could,

would we step across the broken sill

and down the stairs, crumbling steps

into our own lives, dark and empty,

scared and alone.

Autumn Falling into Winter

In the bathroom, right next to the mirror,

is a window I turn to, the act of shaving

such routine, a habit now that doesn’t require

watching myself, nor the gray hairs multiplying

even as they recede, a familial trait

passed down from my father and grandfather,

from a long lineage of old farmers balding,

and turning away to the window, I watch instead

the season changing, autumn falling into winter,

the leaves letting go to fall, to drift, leisurely

gliding down in the morning breeze,

a light wind stirred up with the moon’s setting,

tucking itself over the horizon on the western shore

as the sun rises, celestial bodies opposed,

the patter of their falling, the scrape of dry

on dry, leaves blown, mingling, too,

with the song of chickadee and nuthatch feeding,

calling out, a morning reminder of life’s cycles

letting go to rise again, feeding my soul,

readying myself for a new day, a new season,

autumn falling into winter in the morning breeze.