Beneath
a notched sycamore
the
grass catches scars of autumn
falling
as notched pages, torn from a book,
would
fall – (aptly) swaying like pendulums
ticking
away the days until December.
The
pages traipse towards the water’s edge –
towards
the lake, the cobblestoned rut,
and
crowd against the limestone breccia
like
scrawled marginalia too cramped and blurred to read.
Empty
spaces, lattice-like against the sky,
left
by the pages peeled away,
are
gaps among the leaves –
now,
and now –
like
missed beats in a symphony,
gaps
on a staff –
a
brazen emptiness,
now,
and now –
the
notes unfurl,
rests
crescendo
into
the penultimate silence
still
falling, still to fall –
the unheard played beneath the
heard.
