I glance outside and expect
a mountain to rise behind the house,
sudden granite and trees
in inlets carved by waterfalls,
the air down the mountain slowing
to honey above the sea.

But it is this Autumn
and maple leaves swing on the pendulum of branches.
The oaks with their thinning net of leaves spin
above the house and its flat meadows.
Branches lean into an arched ceiling,
their leaves curved like hands clasped
in prayer.

It is this Autumn
and I will learn its supple light
and you will read to me on the grass
and I will watch your mouth while the leaves fall
and another season turns
on the other side of the world.

And here the trees will draw sharp elbows to their trunks
and a fine snow will tamp down the earth
and Winter will stretch its silence
and I will see the wind made visible
by the weight of snow.

I will learn a meadow is a field made velvet
by Spring flooding, planed by the wash
and ebb of water that levels out the earth.
And I will see the even stories of this place
draw a line to the mountains and wind
on the other side of the world.