Lake Pauline Poem by Peter Morton

I am wild with autumn,
transparent with color,
unable to define either myself
or the landscape,
only knowing that we both
exist
in a devotional place.

Listen!
The leaves sing
in fine clear voices,
not so much in words
as in crescendos of joy.
Born naked and green
they never knew
it would come to this.

In crimson and rust,
saffron and orange,
vermillion and brick
we fall, surpassing both
language and paint,
knowing
that this is what we
were made for.