After Kathleen Jamie’s Autumn
…see the leaves hurry Shy but dirty…
they’re here look…
blown into your stair
I see them too, Ms Jamie,
the leaves skittering without all that green to wait
them
to weight
them
the waiting the wind that weighted they won’t
all summer long (and through their chrysalis curl
of April and into May)
submit to juiced like they are
when the roots they depend on
pull up from the warming
some of the thicker sap
(not what the sugarman taps)
yes it’s the thicker liquid and it winds its way through
and all the sun to flatten, let me address you leaves, leaf
you
(though this
winter it’s been blizzards
then days
and days
of fifty degree (even in February)
rain. First
it’s snow
to the knees
then it’s hip boots
remember, I passed under the memory
of you
it was Monday
and the tide was going
and so—
clam hoe and a pack of smokes
Wasn’t I just a day or so ago
plowing out for Paul, who, home now
from that save-yourself-old-age-pain
knee replacement
is elevated and taking in
the smell of hay and horse shit
coming in the back door
and it’s not latched all the way and it bangs
and bangs and last fall's the all of yous
maple leaves congregated
and now you’re stiff and limp
and bent as men who spent all winter in the trenches
yes congregating
in corners with the assortment
of butchering tools: pullies
and blood crusted rope,
an occasional glass buoy float
and it all, when the foot’s timed right
and the wind sifts it there
ground to powder
and chaff
that if the window across the room
weren’t stuck shut by a decade's worth
of old paint
it’d all blow straight out
the door
if it were open
and there were loose leaves
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