Crux Of The Matter  

 Oct 31, 2009

October air tastes familiar and honey crisp
when forced to the lungs the way my
father’s camera forced the orange-reds
to weary eyes as we waited for winter to invade.
We tried but never saw the beauty he found
illuminated in a leaf gone brown and cracking,
framed by two enticing tree limbs leading to
a secret place always the crux of the matter.

Autumn air brings pleasure that is gone fast
like apple pie on a square white plate
and then the airway narrows and shudders,
a small bird gasps for air as life watches, smirking.
Wings that were strong just days ago and soared
where we can only imagine, are weak and gelatinous.
New golden breezes crunch in our teeth and want to
carry us on journeys we have already paid for, but fear.
When we feel winter’s breath on the back of our necks,
it’s hard to think of pre-need plans.

Sitting in a cup, this need is like pomegranate juice.
If we don’t empty the cup the waitress throws it down
the drain and if we do, maybe no more juice or only
weak old memories of liquid scarlet trickling over bare skin.
We ask what treats nature has written on the menu
and if there is a senior special today but she waves
questions away with a sour blue dishrag.
Why take her silence when life still seduces?
So no tip on the table for her, but for us
at last we find the crux of the matter.