Don’t cry it’s only a painting
no one you know has died
yet it is autumn this feels its way into your bones
children furiously sought grown
the fear lodged between your breastbones for life
is this the like of it in a glance standing beside the windows grand frame
mountains peeked with first snow distant
as they are they are still
and the colors glanced tears these pooled reservoirs life water
there is no escape life turns toward autumn
its reminder
its generosity to cycles
to color to window framed mountains
to the phone call not taken
nor given
the moth flickers finality
the long earned pile of shrub and stick proves the like
no call from home gives over to resolve
and a certain melancholic reality
it is I alone making choices
*Joy, poem by Lisel Mueller