Comments about Timothy Nolan
That immortal clutch of oak leaves
I spoke of? The ones immune to wind,
November, to the failing sun itself? Gone.
Theirs was a lingering.
Anonymous now, brown bristles
in a ravenous broom, I hear
their weightless roving their
scuttling fanfares their
No rain will green their brittle skins,
no thaw rekindle them to life.
Who told the clement leaves
they were hunger, clamor, glory itself;
sparks struck from the endless
rind of light that breeds us all?
What bewitched the green leaves?
What inner fire ...