“Late September” by Chuck Miller

you wake slowly without abruptness
as though there were no line between sleep and consciousness
and see the leaves variegate the woodland floor
in some diagonal drift,
gray skies with the smell of wetness in the air
the flurries of wind sound
as though your relatives were arguing again
in the trees,
but in truth their arguments have ceased
for some stopped with earth
and you remember that yesterday
suddenly in a moment of consciousness
you could not speak on the surface of things
there was only a feeling
a long grasp of memory
and now that too has passed

the birds make insistencies with their cries
and you wait for the water to boil
to wash the dishes
think of the trees that fell last night on the farm
and your dog asleep in her place
practicing perhaps
for the longs sleep not long to come