Autumn Night
The leaf is dry. It skitters down the drive—
A sound that breaks the silence of the night
And wakes us then to all the softer sounds
That come to being, once we pause to hear.
And so I listen to the swoosh of trees,
The traffic on a distant city street,
A tap upon a flagpole—and the breath
That’s barely heard and yet sustains this life.
I’d swept the yard and driveway, stopped to rest,
And heard the leaf and felt the evening chill—
And sitting now and looking at the sky,
I think of all our transience and our dreams.
And from that sky, the baleful eye of Mars
Looks down upon us all and seems to say,
“Your autumn comes and you and I are near
And yet you’re just as foolish as in spring.
“And I will move away and come again
And see some others in your place and then
Some others still and others yet again—
But never any end to foolishness.”
I listen to the wind that plays with trees
And hear a neighbor and his son converse—
For just a bit—and then that wind again
And yet another lonely, scuttling leaf.
So autumn comes and Mars and Earth have neared
For just a while and then will part again.
And some will play at wars and others then
Will tend the wounded. So it always is.
And even Ares sickens of the game—
Or so it seems, as plagues and autumns reap.
But now my sweeping and my rest are done.
I’d like to linger, but I must go in.
2020, October 8th, Sat.,
Brooklyn, New York
