I sit on the house steps. I see memories rush past me as new ones come back. Golden leaves fall to the ground. I walk inside. Crinkle. I walk into my empty house. Nobody is here to greet me. I walk into
my hollow room. I sit on the cold, bare floor.
Tears fall down my cheeks. My old memories, my old friends,
my old house. Everything is gone. A new beginning appears.

Autumn leaves, curved as black hearts,
cast a single red shadow. Thrusting
heart, grasping shadow. There is no
release from beauty.
There is no release.

http://digital.lib.uiowa.edu/u?/dp,2785

JOANNA NAOMI TATMAN
Flicker

Trailing the car
In front of me

I follow the wake
Of autumn leaves

Parted in our passing.
A million spinning tops

That pirouette and flutter
Dancing the ballet

Of the season.
Twisting and twirling

The troupe attempts to
Take flight

Not knowing they’ve fallen
From glory

And that winter has
Pulled the curtain.

But yet still
They shimmer and dance

Applauded only
By my glaring taillights.

From clouds assembling, from cinders flying, from the whistle of skeleton bones,
from the smell of fennel blown inland near the dock,
from a line of gull song screaming
above the Bay, from that which is less than a ripple below
or a wisp on high,
we know to return, each autumn, to Iowa,
again to pick up the leaves where we left them.