I am tangled in torn stems,
shredded leaves.
Where is the picture October painted?
Light watering the shadows?
The harvest oranges,
interludes,
fortes,
pianissimos,
texture,
ribbons,
notes falling off clefts of music.
The garden jerks in the spasm
of destruction.
I am a mourner loving the lost.
Why did the storm ignore its victims?
Pelt the gentleness of flowers with ice?
Tear the eyes off a beautiful face?
Leave branches barren and trembling?
Honey asks, was I not sweet enough?
The leaves,
were our colors not bright?
The cicadas,
our singing not pleasing?
And I have no answer,
but closing a door inside me
saying to the garden
What a wonderful day you had!
What a glorious sunrise!
Now sleep in your autumn dream
until tomorrow,
and spring.