D.S. Waldman

I see your face like November

                        in the trees.

            Light, in shoots,


            through a sunken canopy

— how quickly the two worlds fold

                        together. I reach for your wrist

                                    on the wind-tangled

            wet road. Through

                        the windshield I reach

for the ends of you —

like a thousand birds

            shaken from a single tree,

as alive in flight as you

                        will ever be.  Then,

            like the tree, settled

in such terrible stillness.


about the author