I came upon a house today,
though most of it had gone away,
and left behind its mossy bones
of listing piers and cracked hearth stones.

So I took a pause for pondering
in midst of random woodland wandering
to think of those who once lived there
where none go now but deer and hare.

My gaze took in a lonesome hollow
and found that it was drawn to follow
up the course of a clear spring
that issued from a small stone ring.

I like to bluster flapping clothes
To feel the silk of milky snows
It tickles when I twist the leaves
And rasp around the old oak trees.

I like to touch electric wires
Or fan the flames of red hot fires
To giddy up the static tracks
Of atmospheric lightning cracks.

I like to knock the blocking doors
Or lick the dust on dirty floors
To stir the carbon factory smoke
And whisk away the toxic choke.

Leaves scurrying across the ground
with a brittle rushing sound
a multi-colored moving cover
they chase each other as if lovers

As colored leaves desert the trees
they ride to earth upon stiff breeze
to join their fellows in the fray
on this windy autumn day

All the trees bend low and sway
and fan the air around today
while their limbs all clap and rattle
adding to the noise and prattle

Beyond accusing anger
and burn of bitterness
wrought from beaten jealousies
of rank contempt
risen in fury and fatigue,
the touch of one hand
caught within another
is miraculous.

So we slowly stroll
across the pale sunlight
of September afternoon,
fingers intertwined,
palms pressed warm,
speaking of long years
spent as moments together.