Martin Jude Farawell

The morning air tastes of the dark
underside of fieldstones.  
Gape-mouthed, milkweed
send their last syllables
into November
bracken.  
Silver Aspen, White Birch
tremble at the forest edge.  
The whole forest is quaking
into light.  
A cloud ridge rises
between Pocono
and Kittatinny,
ghost
and smoke.  
In a cold wind
dry leaves
hide-and-seek
from ripening
Bittersweet
to dead
Live-Forever.  
One more day,
and morning light
will angle
undeniably
toward winter.  
But now,
it is the very autumn
of autumn.
What was it?
What I wanted?