|Robert Klein Engler||JUST SO YOU KNOW.|
...the Lord makes the world in the month of Tishrey when the geese fly into haze and the locust tree gives up dabs of yellow leaves. Imagine the world made in the season of falling when the maples are red and the sycamore ablaze, and the Lord says it is "very good," very good that the firewood dries, that the cattle move down the slope, that the crickets clack and the lover tarries in the doorway, and then goes. It is very good that flesh sags on bone and that passion in the heart goes from flame to glow. It is very good the pumpkins swell and the wanderer longs for a home. How good it is that no one answers and that the smoke of war is like the smoke of campfires. How good it is that the world was made when the leaves are hunter green and burgundy and cattails riddle the pond. How good the storms and candles for sunlight. Good that dry leaves gather in drifts by the curb. Good that relics are exposed, and the incense of autumn rises up like a holocaust. It is good, Asters cut for a Mason jar rival the beauty of the far off stars.
An abrasion of rain washes down the roof.
No sighs, no tears and no dramatic pants.
Rainy mornings are for music. Memories of
youth are like the little memory of ants.
That long gone love itches. Another, like a bite
is red for a while, but then the swell goes down.
The street is crystal clean. The soul plays bright.
Poor painted body, you must play the clown.