If this were my last autumn,
when told to go home
and put my affairs in order,
I’d look first
beyond the file cabinet
full of medical bills
to watch the twiggy arrogance
of berried crabapple trees,
a pair of them intertwined
like the hands of old lovers.
Or the maple above them,
still green, saving its red-gold
riches for a last elegy, or
the black spider weaving her
ubiquitous web on the sill,
which I’d hosed off only
yesterday. She’s back,
netting my window in silk.
But I need to sort out
the house, the banking,
the savings for which
others will extend their
hands. And I,
needing less and less
except for medicines,
scant nourishment,
and a bed to lie in,
will focus my eyes
on the bit of grey lace
that is still the sky.
Beautiful!