[Christine P'legion]

AUTUMN CONFESSIONAL

I like it in the fall. I like it grim
and gloomy: sky pressed in, its corners drawn
to earth, tucked tight against the threat of dawn.
The trees are fading, bare; the blue jays' hymn
is sung to elder gods; the light grows dim
as days grow cold and geese take wing. They're gone.

I like it in the fall. I like the way
the air spills cold and liquid on the land
and on my skin, the wind a pressing hand
against my back. The garden's dead bouquet
stands stiff and brown, the glory of its spray
a nothing now, no more alive than sand.

I like it in the fall. My heart lives here,
in face of death, in spite of nature's sad
retreat before the frost. It's not all bad.
My eyes are drawn, each turning of the year
to what's beyond. No fear, says fall, no fear:
the sky is pure as slate. Drink deep. Be glad.