JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Some poems are pools of sadness

composed by dark tressed women

looking out from windows

that never seem to disclose a future

other than fallen leaves

 

And look, a final pair is falling

from branches that

might be likened to

the outstretched arms of

almost recognized figures

in the mist

 

falling, drifting which way and that

on to a heap: the russet, the dun,

the ochre and here and there a wrinkled

yellow as if to say, remember now

 

or stitch your own sorrows,

your needle sewing leaf to leaf

a counterpane pulled over

your tired eyes

to catch the essence

of some forgotten dream