The Fall of My Fiftieth Year

Winter already edging down 
from mountain passes, I walk past 
our first town cemetery, filled with upright 
markers and gold-red trees. 
It’s had no vacancies for years. 

Toward the river, the slant sun before dusk 
illumines the top halves of birch 
and willow. 
                        Only since mid-life 
have I noticed how autumn air and the human eye
can liquefy thick sunlight; 

how dense the tapestry of reeds, 
leaves pooling over grounds; 

the water’s visual rustle 
of silk surfaces.

In a shedding of summer, limbs 
and trunks of the landlord trees 
along this river 
                        are emerging 
prominent again, with their creased 
and furrowed barks: 

my body, with its slow wrinkling 
toward more intricate maps, applauds 
steady footfall sounding 
through its tempered bones.