The Leaves Are Falling

Here I am saying “The leaves are falling” —one of those choruses that vie with interminable verses to mock hoarders. Yeah, we get that a palette of winds is a pretty thing: one blurs the anther, another the river splurging on riprap, expunging phosphates, out of the temperature differential building sculptural fogs that promenade between shores a glacier wedged ajar, a fjord. Whatever gives the river its seriousness reverses in the light of those clouds moving as if absorbing their pomp in advance of it— characters which untied the painter and took the sculls again.