Mixing with the Wind

 

Dappled through the trees
The farmhouse next door shines through
On this warm Sunday.

Ferns next to the house
Are beginning to turn brown--
Their winter garments.

Intricate clusters:
Each bloom in its tiny world
In front of my house.

The old barn is framed
Pale pink between bright orange--
An autumn pastel.

Some fragments of talk
Drift from the house on the hill,
Mixing with the wind.

Forest is still green
As if winter will not come.
(Leaves know otherwise.)

In his tense stillness
Chipmunk sitting by the road
Becomes a statue.

In the fungi's folds
A myriad of soft shades
Strangely welcoming.