I. Love. Fall. And also this poem:
We char filets wrapped with bacon
on hot coals one last time, and enjoy
some power over dead things to come.
Death pollutes the air, its fingers
curling around a honeybee, gripping
tighter, ending his drunken, lazy flight.
It exhales on maple leaves, wounding
their color and crisping their flesh
until they let go and drop to the ground,
protecting the seeds that lie below
and wait for spring.
|One of my favorite photos from Russia. |
A golden birch in front of the Christ the Savior Cathedral in Moscow.