It is the season of falling.
Rust creeps, turns leaves
to marmalade paper and branches, stripped mostly bare by birds,
drop their fat bellied fruit.
That pulpy mound of damson bulbs
heaves with maggots
and, for some,
it is home.
I like to watch the world crawl
long and slow—
pay attention, do all things
with intent: feed, pupate, manifest
and expire. You see death
as stillness, stopping.
Perhaps
it is the lack of a compound eye,
or living always for the next thing,
a mad parade
of ticking clocks and calendars.
But death, too, has a pulse—
the rhythm of a rotting plum
as it bleeds sweetly into the grass
and stains the blades
having ripened
when no one was watching,
least of all you.