The leaves are falling through the air.
The smoke is clinging to the trees.
Your eyes are cloudy with blue smoke.
Your breath is redolent of leaves.
A man is sweeping into heaps
The leaves fresh fallen from the trees.
Your hands are stiller than my thoughts.
Your hair is yellow as the leaves.
The sun sinks low among the trees.
The heaps of leaves are now alight.
We watch the burning of the leaves.
They smoke all through the scented night.
We stand and watch the yellow dawn.
It gilds the frosted, leafless trees.
You weep into an ice-blue wind.
My thoughts revolve like falling leaves.
I should have featured this poem with those of Rilke and Levertov in my current posting on "Autumn Whispers." This poem, particularly the line, "your hands are stiller than my thoughts," made me think of Cummings' poem, "Somewhere I Have Never Traveled," in which he says at one point: "No one, not even the rain, has such small hands."
ReplyDelete