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  • Fall wall, fall wall is still standing, though the leaves, the paint, are falling. The paint scrubs off, peels, the leaves purple, the abstraction becomes smudge. Yet the wall holds, off the grid. Gas goes up, oil seeps, the ocean fills with the detritus of our high and low life, the wall holds, until you hit the wall.

    When you hit the wall, you become my brother.

    You become my sister, when you hit that wall.

    I hit the wall, you hit the wall, we all hit the wall, they have hit the wall, he will have hit the wall, she may have hit the wall.

    When you hit the wall, cut a hole through the brick.

    Walk through that imaginary door with me, to the secret land of creativity.

    There will be fair gardens, fair hoes, fair rakes, there will be tulips in winter, there will be bouquets in the shapes of words, there will be paragraphed posies and poetry laid in piles on a shelf. The wall will be high and old and stone and we will rejoice we have passed through the wall.

    And as we sit in that paradise garden, we will see that the sky is brick and one more wall.

    The paint is an abstraction made matter, the brick is real, old, local, mortared by terroir hands handling, the masons, the leaves turn, purple, now ochre, bleached fade, we feel beached, but way down there is the chance, one more wall.

    (Before the killing frost, earth, come home to me.)


    (Photo by Susan, October 2012)
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