The coming of autumn: the first yellow birch leaves,
And a park bench that looks like an old upright piano,
Which she plays quite naked, save for the wind in her hair
And a bright necklace of newly sprouted mushrooms.
She laughs: I’m only a painting!
Yes. But I can’t help myself. I see it all here.
Is there something special you’d like me to play?
Anything. Anything. And then it rains.
Later, the sun explains. But I can’t understand him.
September 19, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Birches, Diaries, Fall, Fire, Forest Fires, Mushrooms, Poems, Poetry, Rain, Wildfires
William Michaelian 