Leaves bear the colors of death
and resurrection. Promising to return
before the waxwings, before the last snow,
but after the first tick. Always after the first tick.

They float on the river, sinking soon into the world
where nymphs find life. Life with no beginning,
no end. Just a circle like a trout’s mouth
or an old fisherman’s eye.

An old fisherman without a knife
or a creel. Only good intentions, tiny
hooks, and regret. Always the damn regret.

Otters will complete this thing the man began.
Bloody flesh will stain their teeth and fur
with the colors of the fallen leaves.

1 Comment

Glen Archer · April 27, 2020 at 9:49 am

I was hoping I would be allowed to just leave my name, like a guest book. But it wants a comment to let me go. So here’s a comment. Thanks for writing these essays and for your advice all these years.

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