Sestina for the Coming Fall

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In fall, I try to understand the dying 
of so many innocent leaves. The changes 
happen imperceptibly, till the once-verdant is carmine 
or golden, but such pulsing color is only 
prelude to their silent fall to the dark flesh 
of life that decayed before them. A nectarine 

isn’t so silent when it falls from a nectarine 
tree—the stem snaps, leaves shudder as the dying 
moves past them to the ground, where bruised flesh 
of a once-blossom will yield to changes 
wrought by moisture and parasite. Only 
a ravaged pit ever remains of the once-carmine 

fruit. My cheeks turn carmine 
at your suggestion that a nectarine 
is simply a swollen womb. I could agree, only, 
so cruel that they would fall and be left dying. 
One of the necessary changes, 
you say. We inherit it with the flesh. 

If we will fall I want first to mingle with your flesh; 
we can begin with one kiss on carmine 
lips and invoke the power ripe with changes 
like the pregnant passing of an autumn nectarine. 
Break the yielding stem for I am dying 
to be awakened by you only. 

In dreams sometimes, she remembered of the fall only 
the weight of him against her flesh. 
The space between them was too small to think of dying, 
for their impressions there seemed ever carmine 
like the rosy skin of a young nectarine 
before tiny bruises hint of changes.

She wanted none of the painful changes
and wished sometimes only 
to have refused the so succulent nectarine.
But new fruit was born of their flesh 
and pulsing veins would not be coursing carmine
if they hadn’t fallen together toward dying. 

In fall I see changes and you show me the nectarine:
suspended only briefly above dying, 
her flesh swollen with spring and sweetly carmine.