Violets in the Fall

--Maurice Manning

A gang of crows was chasing off

a hawk. The little stream was laughing

and shushing itself. The hawk's reflection

briefly blurred a pool of water

and then the pool went back to waiting

for nothing or the next reflection.

The maple trees were yellow and red,

but redder farther up the stream.

I wanted especially to share

the cloud of redder leaves upstream

with the little girl I had with me,

but she was sleeping. Walking home,

I thought the willow trees around

the pond were standing up like brooms

to sweep the sky. That was the voice

in my head describing the willow trees

as brooms, a thought to stop the world

for a moment's moment. She might have thought

the willows looked like lashes winking

around a deep-green eye,

but as I say, she was asleep

for this excursion in the world.

And she hasn't told me yet about

the voice inside her head. For the moment

that voice is learning how to listen

to its own mysterious silence. I expect

it's like a sanctuary in there

with a candle glowing at the back of the room

and violets dotting the grass outside.