The Firs

Melancholy Miraculous mothers Nature.

The Firs

I’m not ready for everything to die again this year.
‌‌The wind is consistently strong the past few days.‌‌
The people who come from all parts of the world‌‌
To see our leaves change color are leaving.

The ground is a sheet of wax paper‌‌
Under an overpoured easel.

The firs will hold on.

The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last‌‌
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.‌‌
The fan above the microwave still hums,‌‌
A little more dust, a little more hum,

But it still hums.

‌‌The firs will hold on.
Through the season of dying,‌‌
They don’t.

The dust on the radiator floor vent
Burns from the steamed air forced,
From the hidden hot water
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.

The firs weep weary,‌‌
Waist deep in wasting.

If you sit still, close
‌‌Your eyes and listen,‌‌
You can hear electricity

Go into the lights.

If you lie back, close‌‌
Your eyes and surrender,‌‌
You can feel the earth spin.

Fall leaves fanfare‌‌.
Leaves fall fanfare‌‌.
Fanfare leaves fall.

Words fail words.‌‌
Seasons end Seasons.

Melancholy Miraculous mothers Nature.
‌‌New England fathers Poets.

Days you shut the door‌‌
And the hard frost won’t leave,‌‌
Days you open the door
‌‌And the fever lingers,

That dead fly that won’t rot.

There’s only:

Wasting time.‌‌
Watching time.
‌‌Watching Firs.

Wait out the:
‌‌Without sin


Who won’t confess his light,‌‌
No matter what I say.