If I were a bright red leaf on the maple, if I knew
how soon I would fall, branch to sidewalk, I might
fear the ache of detachment, anxiety of impending descent,
reminder of the downward slide of cycles,
internal barometer falling as sunlight lessens.
Far up in grey clouds a single crow crosses the city,
following the river to downtown, southbound geese
arrow the same route in reverse, calling to each other
reminders of where they are going, how fast to travel.
Deliquescence before florescence is easy to admire
when fresh leaves and buds rise from fallow ground,
but the journey to barren months is made of damage.
Don’t ask me to guess when the first killing frost
will crumple the cosmos, when we’ll light
the last backyard fire, when the last yellow leaf will fall
from the elm, when the first blizzard will cancel school.
Ask me instead where I keep candles
for dark nights and how I set my table
with flowered plates and shining cutlery.
Ask me about the worms deep in the warmth
of the compost and the crisp husks of bees
on the windowsill. I will tell you about the crows
that populate freshly plowed streets and what they pull
from snowbanks. Thin meals, but enough.
–
Merie Kirby teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems, and has been published in several journals, including Whale Road Review, SWWIM, Stirring, and Strange Horizons, with work forthcoming in SLANT and Scientific American. You can find her online at www.meriekirby.com.
© 2025, Merie Kirby
Halfway Down the Stairs 