AUTUMN
Last night I kept pulling
gloves from the pockets of my coat.
O abyss of my winter coat’s pockets!
As they fell
the gloves turned into leaves,
curled palms of maples,
stubby fingers from oaks,
gray fists of ash.
I woke up.
I thought of you.
But then I always do.
I considered the hours to come,
the first thing to be done,
and the next.
All day my hands were cold.
—from Rattle #52, Summer 2016
__________
Bill Rector: “My poems are asymptotic curves that approach, but never reach, what I wish to say. But sometimes the approach is close enough for the meaning to be glimpsed. ‘Autumn’ was written after the death of my daughter.”
