Autumn Hymn

Its not sepia, nor olive green, nor the ruby glass of any carpenter's cup.
It is the "mixture" of gravel, of top soil and the spit of the sun
The it of our description, so damn serene, so damn of Hell
Color-field potter, copper iron autumn
october freshness becomes a muse-
is a spice for children, and trackers, and hunters' step
head up, eyes to the sky and
an open nostril to inhail.
The landscape theory fresh, clean, and the throat swallowing down,
a taste, a thought, a sound,
The dust provided of her fallen leaf,
Her old coffin-hole beneath her root called "Alice"