by Gloria Viglione
Isn’t heaven in the Fall like an expectant woman,
like auntie’s pear trees, laden,
like her harvest bone broth
and her counsel, once taken?
In the garden my love cleared the tangled
roots from the stone,
waved nets to clear the horizon
for the long Light being sown.
He came to the window
asking womanly advice;
I served him poetry, peppered figs,
walnuts with spice.
He took me for his wife, never spread his
beautiful wings, but to pass
from scarlet Autumn into frozen bones,
feathers and glass.
Isn’t heaven more beautiful from the window,
orchards cast in droplets of amber?
The gentle hill that slopes and disappears
is also now, in slumber.