Secretly, a Two-Way Street.

All’s quiet on the northern front,

or relatively so: besides the occasionally

clip-clopping shoe, the randomly-pounded

doors across the street, and that steady,

rhythmic, late-night clanging that’s been

going on a week. But mostly it’s Creeper slapping

against the iron rail, and the too-soon-redness

of that single maple tree’s leaves which skitter

the wrong-way down the road, the last hanging-on

bits of glass chiming-in the brusquely blowing

call of autumn. All’s receding by the tug of the

harvest moon: it’s singular wide face smiling

as if to say we’re done, hang it up and hibernate.

All of me is quiet, but not still and not asleep. Too

long-stagnated, the baby and the bathwater

must now go to the birds. Build hovels if you like

but I’m not going to say goodnight, nor yet goodbye.

All’s booming with thunder, all’s frisson and

feeling: that surety of feet on a still-green

woodland trail, still fresh and spring-y.

That certainty is brand-new pulsing in my veins.

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