Anna in Autumn
There are snowmen hands-on trees and leaves hang by nails.
Autumn blue foretells a winter sky. It is the quiet without the storm.
The spring green of plastic turf recalls the ghosts of summer.
I can almost hear the muffled thuds…the silence is a kind of death.
Winter lies on the horizon, anticipating 13 degrees;
snow on the valley floor.
The wind died among fallen leaves,
hushing traffic on the freeway.
Into the silence…I hear the wing, the feather,
of brown girl, flicker between the cross of branches.
She shimmers, hovers in late afternoon light.
The beating wings, pumping heart
the substance of life in winter.
Winter possesses death in the drift of lavender composting gray.
Life is hidden.
Life behind beetle bark and spider silk,
hawking the living out of mid-air.
I ponder Anna in Autumn and hypostasis union.
Life stalled in migration. Life lived without apparent sustenance.
In, with, and under the water, blood, and bread.
The Divine and the Mundane in a tiny brown body.
First published in The Green Silk Journal, Winter 2016.