In Praise of Falling

God bless the sound of truck tires

rolling over black walnuts—

that pop—half puncture, half

percussion—down beat in the song

of falling leaves. And yes, bless that

inedible nut, the green globe turning

between the ground squirrel’s

rodent hands.  Let’s praise them all: 

the lawn mower projectile walnut,

the maker of dents in car roofs

walnut, that whole minefield

of ankle twisters littering

the exposed aggregate walkway

to the front door. And don’t forget

our friend the squirrel—ever hopeful,

nibbling off the nut’s leathery rind,

ever stumped by the wooden shell

inside.  Yes, let’s bless the squirrel.

And how about that crow

now street fighting the scrub jay

over the smear of bitter meat

smashed into the asphalt

by the neighbor’s SUV. Oh hell,

 let’s bless everything that falls

in this autumn yard—those

Granny Smith apples saucing themselves

in the driveway gravel, the yellow

leaves spinning like a Sufi mystic’s skirt

on their way down, and this swarm of 
                     barn swallows diving, again and again,

like lovers who should know better by now.

Narrative

October surf washes up details
from stories I’ve quit trying to plot—

a whole walnut shell bleached
white, its ridges filed smooth, the half-

dissolved lozenge of a brick, a goat
carcass decomposing on a nest  

of sea grapes. What happened to you
along the way? is the question

you ask a changed friend, or a truck’s
rear-view mirror cocked toward

your face. How red sea glass tumbled
into the shape of New Jersey, how

the dime-sized sand dollar, thin
as Eucharist, rode the summer tumult

to the beach—I have no answers
for now. My ex visits in the form

of a charcoal-colored gull landing
on a driftwood plank, autumn-red

beak. She lifts two wings. Nothing is
what it seems: the crab’s lost leg

is a sprig of ice plant rusted orange,
the bleached clam shell is a plastic

milk bottle cap. What made me believe
I could predict my life, decipher

this code? A stone the size of my hand—
its granite surface etched by crooked

white lines—is not a map. A flock
of pipers’ one-inch beaks stitch

crooked paths into wet sand. I’m done
searching for patterns. Today,

this trail ends at my planted feet.