On Ohio Trails One Can Walk a Dog, a Poem or One’s Faun

 

These nymphs can outlast even death,

ugliness, impotence, or boredom,

but I miss those open soulful fans

of ancient theaters that loved

 

to lean like lovers against mountains

dappled with olives, cicadas, and goats.

The Fall is a good time to let one’s Faun

get out and breathe as the enchanted trees

 

are dropping dresses down by one’s feet,

while the light and rosy arches rise

to strum the colored melodious breeze,

and so these maples, aspens, garnet oaks

 

triumph against time and its chilling sweep

like a stolen gleeful kiss or a poem—

a gem of wonder tripled in a row

when it’s made, then lived and breathed.

 

So let the autumn amorous acquaintance

fit this moment’s mold—unhurried mode

and be and go likewise—low and slow

with your line that pencils a shared track to bliss.

 

Does this relaxed rhythm tick like ancient night

when its miracle would have you transformed

with the ease with which the tuft of furtive fleece,

trimmed right and intimate, can bid to take you in?