You will forgive an old man, won’t you, his worn out poems, like shoes, by the door? Twenty-six degrees. An all-night freeze. The early morning sunlight upon the frosted fig leaves is causing them to fall in yellow clumps and bunches, their soft rattle audible through the partly open window. And the living, breathing orchard floor, inches deep with hands and stems, made in timely session by a single tree, […]
In the park by the river, a walk through the old walnut grove. Yellow now. Yellow cottonwoods, too. Yellow brambles. Yellow squirrels. Yellow chatter. Yellow nuts. Yellow holes. Yellow mounds. Yellow talk. Yellow love. Yellow clouds. Yellow Fever Fig leaves so bright, the birds don’t sleep at night. Poems, Slightly Used, October 23, 2009 [ 169 ]
Here is another “yellow poem” from the old age of my youth. My father left us in 1995. For My Father Of the yellow in a wet fig leaf the ear makes sound of falling rain Poems, Slightly Used, October 12, 2010 [ 124 ]
Fifteen words, seventeen syllables — this is one of several “yellow poems” I’ve found while looking through Poems, Slightly Used. It was written October 21, 2009, a bit further into autumn than we are now. But this year it seems the switch to fall has already been thrown. And if you happen upon this note in some other season, I hope love is all you know. Birches She laughs […]
