Autumn

Your garden gate, it never squeaks
Even when the wet air
Paints my breath silver blue.
Should I creep through?
Do you foget to slide the bolt
When the fall fruit's in bloom
And the harvest work brings me to town?
Should I presume?

Your moist grass eyes, do they blink?
Are the tangled vines
You grow curled tight still hung lushly wild?
Do you yet stir?
If I float soft, light as a leaf,
Avoiding your stone path,
And waft in through your lit open window,
Would you unfurl?




9/27/03