wildscape. literary journal

Migration Song
by Sarah Ellis

You’re thinking about death
at the beginning of autumn
when summer starts to wonder
about the wideness of the world.
And by you I mean everything
encompassed by the brittle light
of morning. I’ll never write a poem
that makes the world stop turning
or that at least steps in the way
of the monarchs heading south.
The geese will go on 
with their gospel, dispelling 
distances, and the leaves 
will not remember the discovery
of lost heat. By you I mean
there is no she who can save me,
or at least no she who can step
in the way of the sun. 

You’re thinking about death 
at the beginning of autumn
and by death I mean you
think a lot about the living. 
Their caught-crystal view of life.
I dissolved the peaceful gleam
and it seemed even sweeter, 
until I stood quiet on 
tired legs at a funeral 
where everyone speaking believed
they’d see each other again.
I switched my high heels 
for something shorter and sat
on the back steps grieving 
their restless impermanent
death. By death, I mean 
the purple peonies
dimmed by eternity’s light.

You’re thinking about death
at the beginning of autumn
and by autumn I mean metaphorically,
by which I mean that seasons
change. It’s June, it’s January,
and all of it’s autumn,
one way or another.
The birds are always moving
south. I’m leaving myself
out of anecdotes and letting
the trees speak for me.
The squirrels aren’t as scared
as they should be of winter
but maybe that’s still me
making the autumn drought
about eternity. And by autumn, 
I mean everything
broken open by the sun.

about the author // Sarah Ellis