By Gwendolyn Jensen

Fall Leaves

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.

Category: Featured, Poetry