Autumn Tonic

Well babe,
you know those weavers are children in chairs
and they’re learning to knit.

Come October,
the blanket of knots beneath their feet will be lit
by a rusted peach sun.

Those red breasted robins are pecking the ground
like scraping the last serving from the edge of the pan
and I won’t be watching the leaves fall with wonder.

Neither did the simmering breeze thump my heart
at the crest of the Summer.
I don’t pine for pumpkin spice or the sound of the thunder-

In the rainy season, there’s no need to march into the sea,
just fold those pants up to the knees and breathe
the saturated air until you have drowned

Then open your eyes underwater.
Go ahead and open your mouth
and scream a big bubble of dread when you find
you’re not dead!

You’ll be suspended in the grey and waiting for a single ray
of light to penetrate for a time unnamed,
like a specimen in a jar labeled “the 49th shade”.

Then when the lid cracks and your eyes
get knocked back from the bright,
you will wonder when you started hating the light.
Pacific Northwest molds the walls and the clothes
and fearfully molds our clay.

We thirsty, we hungry, we creatures of the longest night.

We wince at the sun on the shortest day.

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2 thoughts on “Autumn Tonic

  1. This is a real riot, everything rhythmic, tripping over as you pine for the sun. Oh those NW days which are nights without end. And it is 3:45 in the afternoon and the day is turning dark and wet and the neon is more of an emergency beacon than anything else. Where is the fire? Oh yeah, no more wood burning due to the particulates in the air. Where are the snowmen in bear skins when we need them? Well, they are floating upon chunks of ice in the Bering Strait, out there with the fading light and the fish schooling in a language that few can read, but then maybe you can since you are a poet.

    Liked by 1 person

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