By Mark Crimmins
I walk a cracked path
Strewn with the big confetti
Of autumn.
Maples, their limbs coarse with age,
Scatter crisp paper shapes
About me, on me,
Making air a winding stair.
Across the stream,
Frayed roots clutch for water,
And saplings, their extremities
Dissipated to hair,
Lean west,
Shadows pulsing in their leaves.
I dream of broken bottles under trees,
Paper cups among chrysanthemums,
Rusting cans on green divans.
Waking , I find a spider
Has fastened my hair
To a blade of grass
With a home-spun thread,
And though the sun is setting,
Reminding me I am moored
To shafts of concrete,
I am reluctant to sever
The sensitive silver cord.
