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.