In Response to “Autumn on the Hudson river”

by Jasper Francis Cropsey

The green seeps down to the river-
every weed and grass and moss,
marching with such intensity
you miss the auburn waste
at your feet, the sailboats
in the wake and the divine light
struggling through clouds
to give what it has left
to each remaining tree,
the crossed out name
of the artist hidden
right down there, in blood.

Reach up for warmth
Or down for nourishment
Or pool in hollows
Or fall into the stream.

Life is full and leaving
And for some gone
And for some
on the horizon, gathering

Roots pulled toward water
Leaves and trunks and thick clouds
Bent by straight light

What’s all this noise? Seasons after season
panting this drama. Life and dying
clapping against my form. And soon, snow.

None of them know the thunder, the molten lava,
the agony of being born from darkness,
or how long I’ll last once they’re gone.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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