The familiar timbre of a voice,
the trembling skin of water,
and two slow-drifting
orange whales,
half-submerged
in the leaden calm ocean
of autumn words
leaves, wind, chill,
and there, that orange glow,
a steady pulse of joyful waiting
for what has not yet been said
to look is never enough
the world has turned
into a gentle place;
no brown leaves are falling now,
only this ocean of autumn sky
ripples, brushing against my brow
maybe it isn’t
so bad with me,
not yet
if I can still see
all these quiet wonders
in the sky,
and here on the earth.