The sluggish flies of fall will soon surrender; not yet the days too cold, we swim in splendor.

I am yours now; the grasses golden at my knees.

I am yours too; the brilliant fire of fickle leaves.

The wind is here, but not too much; the chill is too, but just a touch.

Bring me those clouds, festooned in sky; bring me their shadows, over mountains high.

Show me the smile on the face of a child; uncover her face, all pink and wild.

Help me to find the longest way home; all time is too quick, this season on loan.

And I say sorry to

the plant, whose dirt is dry

with fissures small and narrow, desiring the fuse;

the trash in the wind

flyaways from the bin, unsecured and forgotten

its contents unmarried and small, puffing around the yard

and landing in the dry grass and weeds, for which I am also sorry.

The zucchini, ahh, the zucchini;

giant boats of emerald, shipwrecked atop compost,

bunkered soldiers for seeds.

Then, the dinosaur feet of chickens

pecking at the door, cornered away from the sun

scratching at somber grain.

Finally, I say sorry for the food

not yet placed on the table, not yet made.

There are no delicate bowls passed around, 

no fingers touching in the exchange.

And this is the way it will stay;

I will be sorry until the plant, whose dirt is dry,

soaks up the water from the invitation of my hands,

and we can gather at the table once more.

I’d forgotten they were there

a world of them flitting through air

with jade and sapphire wings at their side

unshaken when two seasons collide.

Unnoticed when the tangled roots are spry,

their nests don’t seem quite so high

for a coyote or even a fox to spare

yet still I’ve found, they’re always there.

And when those twisted vines do fill with spring,

and a wealth of green on which to cling

their brilliant feathers spread and swing

and bluebirds in the alder sing.

We wear the sweaters of the dead.

Our fathers’ wool, our husbands’ fleece;

they are down to our knees and free of the raw fibers

only new sweaters know.

These have been broken in:

blowing out sprinklers in the fall, shoveling snow,

arms fastened to books in front of the fire; 

they were underneath office jackets and winter coats.  

They carry the memories of little hands,

transformed from white to pink on the sledding hill;

their fibers are still pulled from wedding rings 

caught underneath the heat of arms,

valiant and lusty on winter’s mountain.

We do not care if they go with our shoes,

or if they accentuate our curves;

such matters are of no account when wearing the sweaters of the dead.

Their looks, and labels, and age are of no consequence,

not even if they have been flung into the dryer

accidentally shrunken into new versions of themselves.

We do know what that is like.

We care only that they keep us warm,

and that everywhere they’ve been will always be

with everywhere we go. 

I wait for you in the hour of gold

when the breath in the cottonwoods will carry me your way,

and I hope you don’t mind my trail.

My skin, my face, my hair are fair like yours;

your earthen home, in fact, could be mine too

but for my lack of language.

Can you show me?

Fear not, though

I am your champion

moving through the grass to try and understand

a foxhole and a friendless kit.

The others have flown away

into the prairie, into the foothills, into the mountains

with wings you will never have

save human intervention.

There is a little something I left for you there

in the nook of uneven bark,

and I’d lke to think that the feathers I see,

and the rabbit leg bent like finger in the mire

might mean that you’ll be okay.

But for now, Boo Radley,

please poke your head out

so that you can look into my eyes…

I hope they look at the trees first.

One hundred years from now,

I hope they languish among the extant timber of the yard

and then move through the house in a hurry

keen on returning to the wildwood sea of needles.

Maybe they will look at the first-planted Spruce  

and exclaim that one hundred owls could burrow there;

one hundred owls among the sprouting quills of blue-green

and their two hundred eyes like ornaments. 

How I would love to listen for all of them 

from Heaven’s open window at night.

The trees will be tall then.

Too tall for even the bravest and longest-limbed child to climb.

Hand over hand over branch, leg bent to the ear in a stretch

I would hope that the child still tries.

But they will not be so tall that the top is unseen.

Oh to gaze upon their peaks like praying hands, 

joined together on some, forming arches like guards;

keepers of trust in water and sun.

All the same I am here now,

holding the hose to the roots, and then along the reach of arms.

There is a song on repeat for each bud of spring, 

I sing it when the clinging diamonds of water move slightly in the warm wind 

and think that

whoso cannot connect to the splendor of a sapling

will not see the kingdom that grows.  

It is quiet before the school bus brings them home.

My husband and I

are examining the boiler.

Our long-reach lighter relaxes unfound

somewhere in the garage; inside an unopened box

packed a lifetime ago it seems.

There within no doubt,

it makes company with my favorite woolen sweater–

the absence of its fibers more acute on a day like today.

Cold rain hits the basement windows where a peek of mustard leaves

flares on the trees outside.

We tape a match to the end of a screwdriver’s replacement arm

twisting and contorting to make it reach

before the match burns out,

then listen for the understated puff of success that will heat the house.

Soon, up and down,

through and in-between the walls

water starts to gurgle and hiss;

baseboards click and warm,

coppery pipes push heat through the bulwarks

of our weathered quarters

so new to us.

We sit as the kettle on the stove whistles

and the room warms,

thinking how much like marriage it is

to ignite the pilot.

I do know,

that I fall for the things that 

present themselves whimsically

only to land in love

with the prosaic touches of everyday.

Like how I don’t mind the Wyoming wind,

or the roughness of cowboys

who show me their scars 

three months out of the year.

(And then when winter comes, 

and I am gone somewhere else

warmer

and upturned-collars cleaner,

I long for the wind and the scars again.)

I know this is why I do love the silence

on the weary path—

the forgotten light, subject to the slivered moon

and the job of eyes to fix uncertain edges.

This is why I do love the old horse who will match my footsteps 

along the fence,

and how the mice who have built a tunnel from the barn to the coop, 

scurry in layer-feed dust away from the remains of fall. 

It is not my wonted chore,

so I breathe the suburbs’ passive fade into unbroken sounds,

and I delight in the footsteps that find the magic of an equine’s simplicity and desire:

the crunch of alfalfa between his teeth twice a day.

What do you think

of this unwalled world?

Of a horizon that’s hidden; 

the earth and sky pearled?

Do you see the fleck of dog

cutting through the snow,

carving a solid line

no care with where to go?

And what do you think

of your blush-nose in the breeze?

So hush-ed now,

and just a tease.

And do you like the way

the snowflakes fall

on your mink-like fur,

their mid-winter drawl?

Do you know like I do

that your existence is white 

the clear and the soft, 

the fabric of right?

Do you feel like I feel,

were I to set you down,

that your feet might flutter big

and you’ll fly to Never-found?