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The Cord

By November 5, 2021No Comments

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.