Image copyright PBS
Curled brown leaves
litter the sloped hill.
They skitter in the wind
before we remove the land.
Now take away the need
for moisture and the deteriorating
qualities of autumn. The veins
and stems will release as well.
Take away the release. Take
away the seasons. Take away
fuzzy green-orange filters, stains
of breaking mornings, early hints
at night. There is no dew.
No canvas. Take that, too.
There is no ground. No horizon. Take.
When you finish all your taking (take)
all that's left are windy underpinnings (take)
that undulate and gasp.
If God's sighs for us can be either hard
disgust or complete relief, which way would
green-orange turn until the color brown believes?
Kurt Cole Eidsvig is the author of the books The Simple Art of Murder, OxyContin for Breakfast, Art Official, and Drowning Girl. He lives and works in Key West.