Leaves fall without fear,
trusting wind to hold their weight—
earth will catch them whole.

The pit is bottomless,
inhabited by detestable creatures
half formed and shifting-
Their teeth like splinters,
their breath the smell of rotting flesh.

They never take shape
Their edges smudged,
But they are poised
to pounce at your weakest.

You fall by your own volition

down, and still farther down.

Because falling is simple

when the pit is yours.

arthritis tippled wooden relief    plugged in a bed of mud
the leaves that decay to its side                                   
                          comp­liment the carved ones that feather the face
but it is creaked   crevice and sinuous  
  a kind crumpled face  or maybe a stern  yet approving  parent mask
two seasons of weathering                                                    
  ­                            withered   saturated and withered again      
this self unearthing
worth moulded from
the decaying green man
reapplying  for a creative birth
for a visit  on the Autumn hearth
filling in its ****** details     with broken and discarded
school yard pencils   scudded over litter  and mud
soon to be worshiped again...
would settle for a respectful gift        from a child

for all his wonders in spring                                            
              ­                  he has envied the witness of harvest
but attention goes to other gods

he pouts  out of season     for no one here  greets him