By Gwendolyn Jensen
Some say that fall is death
or death imagined.
And it is true that color
announces both,
Whether painted on
the leaf or skin,
Whether red or gold
or pale clay.
Grandfather’s picture was painted
in his autumn
Garden, in his dark green
garden chair,
The leg rest up, his legs
stretched out to where
The rotogravure is spread
all around him.
Here are remembers I’d
forgot to ask–
Of autumn’s desiccation,
and of his being
Viscous as his pond.
He was outside
The conversation. And if
I had asked him
To join in, he would
have said there are
Other conversations
to be had.