by Miranda Merklein
Tumbleweeds on fire, controlled-burns
soaring up the sidewalk. Not a flair, but a snare
for the dramatic midterm fall winds. The leaves,
leaves not for the sake of me
The what-comes-down, Furies
not in my control. Don't you worry
about the snow--just trust the source,
the snow-capped Sangre de Cristos.
Take heed in your plot, muster his swift blows.
In this, the crest of seasons change, not a senryu in sight,
no articles of supreme presence,
my layaway gift.