Jeffrey Woodward

The Pivot

only the wind
in a wading pool 
and yellow leaves

Neither a whisper nor a murmur really, neither a confession nor yet a secret alluded to, but only a slightly abrasive tick or dry rubbing, an indecipherable chatter of objects within that severe discrimination of light and shadow that marks late October, of objects suddenly animated and going about their business without interest in human presence or absence, the whole of matter one vertiginous flux and one act of change where the acrid smell of wood smoke, far from every pyre or offering, lies like lead upon the air.

the sound of a hammer
nailing something together —
leaves of autumn

First published in Frogpond