Kneeling in the Autumn Garden

Something in the air—

A slight scent like a cold hearth—

Sinks

and pools idly

between the  waiting stones;

the stubborn stones,

the constant stones

that lie unburied on the steady ground.

Something in my chest—

A faint weight like an old grief—

Twists

and slides quietly

under the fallen leaves;

under the aspen leaves,

the cherry leaves,

the apple leaves

that lie still over the red stones.

Something like my hand—

A warmth of outstretched fingers—

Hovers

and waits steadily above the chill earth

over the place where no quick rustle is;

over the lost leaves,

the gold leaves,

the heavy leaves

that lie unmoved on the enduring stones.

Something like my head—

But not under the weight of pain—

Bows

and sees and smells and hears

with senses other than my own:

Beyond the empty air—

Past the unburied patience of the stones—

Along the unseen path beneath the leaves—

Down to the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning Earth.