The colored leaves touch one another—autumn’s architecture—
as we pass the many arrows pointing to roadside stands.
Midmorning we pull into Kandinsky’s Autumn in Murnau
just off a curvy Vermont highway, the sky a smoky blue.
The requisite stuffed, starched scarecrows, witches, and flying bats
scatter among the orange pumpkins surrounded by gnarly-shaped gourds.
The smell of the country and splashes of rustic-colored displays
make us smile as if a certain mercy had been granted to us alone.
Then there is the holding and touching, the smell of leftover dirt
on plump pumpkins and gourds oddly shaped like creatures of myth.
We sip on steaming coffee as we paw for the perfect picks:
solid stems, flat base, bright orange hue, the feeling it belongs in your hands.
“Every Breath You Take” plays on their speakers and I feel suddenly sad
as if smoke is filling my lungs and I turn to you for help.
How sudden a line of poetry can take me where I didn’t know I was:
“I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.”
Our flannel shirts touch as we pick over fall-themed items scattered on tables,
offerings to the god of orange and rust and yellow and the smell of dying leaves,
as if all life was flotsam and driftwood washed ashore
on the hills of New England in October on the last day of our lives.
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Marc Frazier has published in over a hundred literary journals, including The Gay and Lesbian Review, Slant, Permafrost, Plainsongs, and Poet Lore. The recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry, Marc has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His books, including his latest, Willingly, are available at online booksellers. See Marc Frazier Author on Facebook.