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A Changing Gift
by Jo Balistreri

Another November morning, still, cold.
I walk with the tingling air
to pond’s edge where sun already huddles
near glacier-aged limestone, and water
basks in pink-tinted clouds. I listen
to this language of another time, spoken

in color and light, tone and temperature.
Beside me, tattered green weeds sway in tall
elegance, their crocheted dresses beautiful
but too thin and summery for this brisk day.
On the far shore, trees don maple-red,
and birch-gold, a grand send-off for this sun

that leaves soon for other shores.
The splendor of one form slides into another,
as fire and water, air and earth, seed nature’s
ongoing creation. Although the falling leaves
feel like loss, I am reminded of harvest. I look
at the sun-filled pumpkin, a fallen pecan,
and think of Thanksgiving. A burgundy leaf drifts
into my lap, nudges me to move on.


Bellowing Ark, 2008






 

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