photo 2

Our vegetables are finished,

their remains haunt forgotten gardens.

The leaves plummet to splendid deaths

in raucous evening gowns

of gold, copper, scarlet, tangerine.


Be kind to yourself,

You can’t do it all and there is so much to do.

Everything that has grown must be eaten

To the bone

To the core

To the seed.

Here is shedding,

the next layer beneath the surface

after wrappings are crumpled and tossed aside.

Here is the breath.


Science is a strange language:

proving things to each other,

predicting what will happen again.

All we do sometimes is

amble towards

the one dark mystery

and pretend it is not our destination.


Autumn kept silent

during summer stories

smug in the sunlight


muted light hits the whisper of the trees

innocent, full, so many leaves to lose.

Crawl down,

curl up and speak sweetly to yourself.

You are not dead yet,

even if you can’t get up

right away.

You recline

in the place

where life will find you




The first frost arrives

in its full voice,

smoky, piercing.

photo 4




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