The Burning Bush

Everyone, everywhere,
has fallen asleep
in the bushes.

Far away, a torch
is dropped. Not one person
wakes to help. Who can blame
them? Dark is falling out
over the ridge. Soon,
the dead will bury themselves.
And then who will be left
to mourn the burning bush?

The Last Day of Summer

Your hand is heavy
in mine. Shall I cut
it off and prop
the door open?

I don't believe the leaves
have ever fallen so quickly.

The wind has a way
of sweeping leaves inside.

Damn the debris of autumn,
you mutter, quiet-like,
just above a whisper.

Later, in the kitchen,
an apple crisp is being born,
and in the cupboard,
a plate has cracked in half.

The Petoskey stones
that we gathered
stare at me from the window sill.

In the closet, our tent
has already started to hibernate.

By this time tomorrow,
I will have forgotten your name.

For now, you smile and brush
the hair out of your eyes,
quiet-like, just above a whisper.