Alice O. Howell   

 

AUTUMN IN EDEN

  

What if the Fall, the original one

 were my own

 autumn in Eden

  

should I choose, now knowing choices

     those leaves of fire, amber, gold

         and protesting green

 the squirrel's spritely pessimism

 the pheasant's claxon omen

 the bittersweet's burst of heart

 the frost on the pond's brown eye

     the iced grey rime

     the cobwebbed hoar

     at the windows of the barn

                       or

     the white-feathered pinecones

         bedded amid the soft spilt silt of needles

     the mystic swirl-whirl of conjuring tree fingers

         in the October wind

 or your moist mosaic of kisses

 still dearly gently warm

 against my face?

  

the wild geese are flowing over in a far fleet aloft

 high, high, at least a thousand strong

  

    they point in their primordial cuneiform of wings

     to the dignity of instinct

  

it is the serpent's only defense.

 

                    a.o.howell

 

       

                                              

HOME

to MIST