Wolverine Stew: Arboretum in Autumn

Shining dried leaves of gold coins

Cool but not cold, crisp but not desiccating

Sky painted over with light, pale strokes

Sanguine ivy creeping through bark skin

Nestled past the graveyard encircled by hawks

As the last of the bees gather 

Wooden fairy house staged from sticks and latched with leaves

Hushed hill of degrading green

The sun still hangs above, yet the crickets chirp

Wilting daisies and remnants of Black-eyed Susans

Squirrel waits by the amphitheater for a concert I suppose

Dry lake of reeds and towering Queen Anne’s lace 

Brush your hand over them to hear the waves

Or wait for Eurus to kindly produce them

Snapdragons swim in shallower parts

Sandy coasts of stampedes surround the waters

I can hear mechanical echoes on the empty railroads

I wonder what their destination is

Never have I found a stiller willow

The Spanish graffiti says “you are my world”

Is it rustling leaves or something else beneath this creaking bridge?

Logs long-covered in lichen

There’s a forest of stinging nettles

I can see gold reach toward the sky

As I exit towards the graveyard