A Pregunta

In the tenuous art of perfection,

cryptic glory of furtive beauty,

in Fall, when dreams are put away,

the poet asks, where does an idea go when it is forgotten?

It gathers in pine straw for winter blueberry bedding,

it gathers in a stack of books to illuminate dusky evenings,

it gathers in browning squash on the vine,

for hearty winter soups to warm a cold afternoon,

it gathers in socks that have not seen light since spring danced,

it gathers in philosophical meandering,

it walks on rocky, windy beaches as hair blows horizontal,

it gathers in red-brown leaves rustling through oak groves,

it gathers in woolen shawls worn thin

by decades of enveloping limbs and hearts,

it gathers in tufted dens of rabbits and possums

cuddling in fur puddles,

it gathers in leafy nests of turtle enclaves,

it gathers in flights of geese streaking from the grayed north,

fades away like brilliant yellows of sunshine seasons,

azalea pinks and iris purples,

wrapped in clouds, hibernating in winter burrows.