Oh little heart on my wrist where are we going?

-After Susan Becker

Where lightfoot lads
and girls all
no matter how
golden they danced
under a green hill
gone every last
one

one thinks (each one)
not me no
who rode the bay mare
full tilt over plowed fields
clods flying galloped
straight into October
woods ablaze
a-flame with brilliant
leaves

believe it
(who can) this always
going slow & faster
into that good night
downwards

down-gyring
like so many used-up
dry leaves
their one season
done?

Red russet gold
must dance now
to the leaf-blower’s
rough mercy & the
grave trees
bow bare

un-leaved
oh yet
not yet for me
that naked falling

Fall I will but before
that still let me
delve this narrow
road to the far music
old Time soon enough
will tap my shoulder
it’s time to leave
the party
but oh the cellos
tell me no
not yet so long
as longing stays

Stay with me
say the French horns
and the timpani’s
softly
beating heart
agrees

Geraldine Zetzel

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