Autumn Lieder

Split husks against a blue wall,
string trellis wraithed
with dried finger vines

of sweet peas, moon flower,
seeds spent on a scratch of ground,
the down payment for better weather.

Wind in the alley runs hard.
In the long grays of this latitude,
the promise of empty is numb.

If color is the currency,
only leaves look rich,
teasing pages to be turned.

Innuendos are traded for sweaters,
the sound of hands opening.
Beneath the afternoon's murmur,

words arrive,
gone in the next breath.
Epiphanies come wet with rain.