Fall Poem by Phillip Erb

The spirit of the woods billows from beneath
Rolling hills of orange and brown leaves
A great, hot breath coughs ash in my face
My lungs collapse flat, His hand slaps me awake
Sneakered feet stumble up the hill and sink
Into the sponge of tilled earth, cup tips, drink spills,
Black coffee I carried down inside plain -
Intended to keep my eyes pried wide with its drug -
The soul of our forest loses breath and smolders under
Dust feather gray memory and coals never taken asunder
Feel no sympathy and show no semblance of sentiment
As another summer is harvested, returned to earth life lent.