Our summer plans have fallen from the trees.
I feel tired, chilled by autumn. Our last trip
was a golden blaze of red and orange, pure joy
burnt brightest on a far horizon, drawn too near.

Now the north wind blows, nothing but gray,
barren gray. You saw the eagle in the birch
but I was looking at the hard ground.
Is there something dragging on my heart?

Brown thistle, stiffened raspberry cane,
many months bereft of fruit.
Our hilltop camp above the water,
nestled in the choke cherry brush,

is coming down. Our trudges on the forest path,
hauling summer to a winter storage,
are too efficient, energetic-
no lying in the Mayan hammocks

drinking beer and napping, listening
to the woodpecker tap, the sneaking deer.
Tonight we'll sit in the empty Tipi
burning all our wood, throwing a last warm glow

into the crisp night air. Tomorrow,
all the canvass will come down, leaving
only our hand-wrought poles to face
an endless winter.

When the last chore is done,
the last path trod, I'll look around-
its all so beautiful.

11/22/2004

Author's Note: included as part of a Dance/Spokenword/Music performance at Bloomington Art Center

Posted on 10/02/2005
Copyright © 2026 Jim Benz