somehow, the front porch lights seem more
yellowed, muted -
like images of a child, tiny hands
wrapped around a lightbulb
hazy and unclear around the edges

soft felt patterns
heartfelt sighs
Autumn always reminds me of my last love
and the love before that, and before that
we always seem to drift apart
somewhere between September,
November

maybe it's the way I obsess over the colors
that drives you to despair
or just the change towards sweatshirts
hooded and obscured
that makes you wonder what's beneath
and begin to doubt me
and the layers wrapped around an apple core
bitten and gnawed on

I'm always alone -
well, not always, there's always another
waiting to be near -
but when each footfall is muffled
by wet brown leaves clinging to cement
then I feel that my loneliness
is beautiful

and as much as I need you
it's the needing that warms my heart
as the last embers of July, August fade to gray
it's not the you.

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.