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Tad Wojnicki

Looks Like Fall

Through the golden ages of gardens, past headless sunflowers of dreams, we go looking for what we called "wild-grown fun." Crossing fields of fertile furrows over wedding carpets of meadows laid under tolling oaks, we reach Hidden Hills—dust-blown, strewn with leaves.

a leaf sweeps
into the riverbed
raising dust

This late, I can't make you sweet with wormwood, cowbane, and viper's bugloss as I used to, crazy about Jew's-ear, horsetail, and forget-me-nots, or wild over blackberry plump with baby berries. All I can do is hoard golden leaves to make you filthy rich, and make a wild offer of sloe plums.

fall
love
leaves

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