Poetry

Sub Roar To A Bright Indian Fall

by Samuel Dumas 
09/08/19
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Every year I trump
In the down-quiet hollows
In the paved parking ways
And on thru rudy-ochre'd forests
And yellowed quid roads
To Gramma's house,
To the great Book Barn
In search of raw kind verdure:
     'Leaves of grassy poems,'
     'Bone fire for my sanity,'
     Hearth-Light for the cognitive dendrites
     Of my voluntary mind.

I see their motionless fall-downs,
I hear their squish-masp tearing
Under my black winter shods;
I feel their reaching up
Through my two walking sticks
      —as I always do—
Remote-Sensing their seasoned silent plaint
That sub-roars into a too bright Indian Fall
Where their flipped colors sting-chill our air,
      —they are here—
They are here with their invominating whispers,
Voices  I hear from the higher world of wood
       Repeat and clear:
‘Come…come—and walk over all our dead bodies.’ 

—Dumas fils