Click the icon to the left to view in PopUp
(Thinking of Autumn and Brodsky.)
Leaves of the witch hazel
linger golden on the branch
to the timbered dusk.
A tide of evening shadows
filters in; and the hunter pauses
remembering his house
in a distant hour by the sea.
sat near the window folding clothes,
her hair illuming the glass
without a lamp or moon.
Quietly, the waves rolled in
with rain; and he sat quietly, too,
loving how she lit --
a small space
in a cool, high-ceilinged room.