James Morehead (Poet Laureate - Dublin, California) recites his poem "Falling" from his first book "Canvas".

Falling

With a damp chill and shortening days,

I drive past Dorset at autumn’s peak.

High above, white clouds stroll puffed in promenade,

held delicate together by slender contrails,

and morning sun softly warms a crisp early breeze,

sending lake shimmered ripples—a cumulus mirror.

I step into a forest, maples rooted firm in Canadian shield,

feet meandering in search of a tickling leaf crunch.

All the while, drinking air soaked yellow, orange, red, brown.

In time, the breeze grows unsettled around,

a bluster that rips determined leaves from their perches,

scattering like startled butterflies, a colorful stochastic flutter.

I walk alone, thankful, threatening nimbus halts its advance,

and slip through the leaves, past seasons, years, decades—

transported from Canada to a New England vista,

passing through time and space into a 70s country wagon,

where the roads, ever curving, slide me across the trunk floor

as we slip on to gravel in search of a fall fair.

Touching a pumpkin’s husk hurls me again into space,

to Boston’s Freedom Trail outside Faneuil’s Hall,

with autumn colors draping the worn graves of patriots,

and the tickling crunch unchanged despite decades passing.

Through Boston Common, King’s Chapel, down ever-twisting walkways

where artists balance canvases and sketch with fingerless gloves.

In a moment, falling again through the city to rural Vermont,

winding through postcard towns and white painted gazebos,

nestled still in rust-draped Appalachians.

I step into Waterbury, hugged warm in a peacoat,

strolling down uneven sidewalks past sleeping storefronts,

to stir and crunch leaves from their wind-structured stacks.

Finally falling, surrounded, the sweet scent of decay

burrowing deep into earth, past shadow-seeking light,

until mildew and gray give way to Newton’s morning,

sunshine bright, sparkling through orange-tinged edges.

Leaping out of the pile, a burst of oak and elm,

distant memories of youth when time had no meaning.

And now, each fall passing and cycle of leaves,

autumns behind me stacked higher than waiting ahead,

I cling to each breath of crisp scented breeze,

and try not to blink, looking out over the trees,

and listen to each crunch as I step through the leaves,

until I catch a fell maple to welcome me home.

Cutter Streeby on Exploring the Intersection of Visual Arts and Poetry