|Trouble with the
I often write about autumn,
how the air changes becoming thinner,
how the crows gather in the thinning
trees, calling to something they must
see beyond life. Even blood is weaker,
opaque, but soup cures this.
I loved a woman once, for a long
time, but then one clear October night
we talked on a veranda overlooking
eucalyptus and the crows were quiet,
the moon was up and when I turned
to find her she was gone.
I blame the moon for making things
obvious, the crows for not defending me.
I love the season with leaves underfoot,
the first puddles and Dia de los Muertos
and see, the trouble with the fall
is just that someone always leaves.