How can the hobblebush in autumn
reveal on each leaf
both frost and flame?
What was it in yesterday’s communion
with a stranger—warm angel in cold
halo of morning—that
pulled my heart wide open?
Why am I at once hollowed-out empty and
fulfilled beyond measure
by the shimmer of leaves on beech, birch, poplar,
the eternal silent thrum
of momentary light?
-Kevin Macneil Brown