If you haven’t decided to buy a copy of my new book (or haven’t even thought about it, or entertained the idea of thinking about it), here is a poem from the collection, which seems particularly relevant this time of year. Though, there is more to it than the season, I hope.

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Autumn

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There is a time when god never stops speaking,
when the flagrant red tongues of leaves burn
against the sky, when the spirit flares up,
rushing through the branches
with a voice disbelievers call wind,
when words belong to whatever field
of air they fall through, whatever patch of land
they come upon, and whosoever walks
through their crackling must listen,
cannot help but listen, cannot possibly
be alive and not hear the words
that every bush is burning to say.

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from The Smallest Working Pieces