Harvest Moon
The blown leaves settle on the earth like powder.
The branches of the trees are moving flame
and squirrels quiver over them, suspend
themselves like fruits, bowing them to the ground.
Ivy unwinds itself, dark leaves like arrows.
Berries already overwhelm the holly.
The rain comes mildly down and veils the grasses,
the rushes, mosses, sticky slabs of fungi.
Out on the lake, the swans glide, mute as mist,
and, far above them, wild geese pierce the air.
You've pierced me with your arrows, with your darkness.
I bow myself and quiver at your flame.

Kitty Coles

If you have any comments on this poem,  Kitty Coles   would be pleased to hear from you.