On a Fall Sunday

When I got mad at you and walked
down the hill's north side,
fog nested in the ravine,
piled up the steep flanks.

I entered that cloud
on streets I didn't know,
descended narrow steps
clotted with slick leaves.

Caught the dank smell of dahlias,
spidery blooms defying
a gardener's intentions to prune.
Wound up intimate alleys

past the green cemetery,
General Army of the Republic,
where sentinels emerged
from diminishing mist.

Crossed rays of sunlight
starred through yellow-clad branches,
met a blind woman leading a friend,
and back at Galer's crest

a blue border rose
above thickets of gray.
Seeing steam drift
off fences and telephone poles,

I had traveled far enough,
back to words I was ready to say.