On Autumn

Beauty and fragility.
A hummingbird on a book cover, a naked Sycamore with a Y and X-shaped branches exposed, a cup of tea. But where did the birds go? Come back! this is the dawn of something new. Last night’s noise must have meant something as the leaves landed on the ground, a fissure of melancholy and illustrious agony, or maybe just a repetitive symptom of a fatigue Earth. Rivers shine birds melt dust migrate eyes blink wheels halt roads diverge coldness crawls inside my sleeves. I believe Autumn’s only a transition but what isn’t? And alas, the wind altered the season, the leaves pulled down like curtains and it was the end of it, if not everything.

On Hands

I wandered through the rooms, the faces I’ve known for years. The smell I can tell apart. The hands, I once in a while want to hold them in the cold.

My mother’s hands, hefty with air and long fingernails. All else she might neglect but her nails. Freckled, dotted with small islands.

My father’s, skinny hands, skillful, frequently tremble. His edgy bones show up, his pipe-like green veins remind me of transparent death, his skin looks almost like glass.

My brother’s smooth hands, a hand that can draw and paint. Once smelled of tobacco, the hands I envy.

Their hair a sea of scarcity. Their backs, a reminder of everything but their faces.