Reduced to Translation

We think we know the fact of autumn,
the season of concealment ending at last.
But we’re wrong.
So much lies between falling
leaves and those branches
exposed to stark air.

The language of rot and mold
informs the tongue,
as does odor.
I am sustained, it says, in
disintegration, which we
interpret as peaceful
process. Little prayers,
fluttering. Mistakes.
The arc of divinity.

All in good time,
and in proper perspective.
A simple correction, without
intent. Reduced to translation.
To obscurity.

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