Black Fall

by

Greg Van Hee

Up North black is the final color of fall:

it whirs in a dark cloud of birds heading South;

swirls in a circle of crows over the carcass of summer;

swarms in a flotilla of coots across the lake’s last blue.

Last night a storm of gold fell in the night,

crashing to cover the green and brown in a carpet

of rattling, restless leaves moved by a cold wind,

leaving the shivering branches black against the sky.

And always lurking like a gaunt impervious priest

to perform an inevitable ritual of Last Rites,

Winter waits to wrap the corpse of another season

in a blank swaddling of unfeeling white.

So the World gripped without pity in winter’s

relentless, cold hands

struggles to keep in its benumbed heart and mind

memories of an oh so distant resurrection.