It’s a quick turn back to spark,

light. Fire again. November and

the hickory trees are in their own

flame, we cross the fertile black

Spring Creek in the truck this Sunday,

park by the river and walk beneath

the clear bright sky, the sky of all

that came before is behind me now.

This is an air of setting out with new

breaths not yet soiled by lungs, but

sprung from the center of this holding

earth, wrapped in mats of cool fall

grass and earth-bound inhale, exhale,

send your wishes from the shores,

we have pushed off, now we paddle.