1.
One could say we were alight (to shine, to shimmer,
to be bright against the dark)
Or one could say we alighted (to descend, to fall,
to be earthbound after some ascent)

2.
A story whose veracity
I can neither confirm or deny
regarding the fall of our
genealogical cousin, the Neanderthals

Scientists cannot say with certainty
what it was that caused their demise.
Physically, they were superior to homo sapiens,
their brains at least our equal

A new discovery has proved interesting:
their Adam’s apple was a few inches
higher than our’s; they could not

enunciate “A’s” or “E’s”

3.
Philadelphia hangs on the back edge of a cold front

which has sliced up the sky

like the corrugated and rippled underbelly

of an eight lane superhighway

Summer flies in the passing lane, waving
a supple red hand behind a swirl of cloud,

now the late riser

Most of the city is adumbral, grey.
But here, to the North, we are blessed
with the clean,

tentative blue of fall.

A baptism.
A plummet, too.

4.
Where does anything come from?
A poem, its language.
Wind that plays with fallen leaves.
A young woman’s fragrance on a cold
night in October, that sweet cinnamon warmth.

5.
Inceptions, the root of things

of leaves rustling and the wind roaring

of love.

We cannot articulate its coming,

the falling.

6.
The footfalls of winter are in the wind,
and in the quiet: gone are the susurrant cicadas,
and the bellowing crickets
have thinned to a chamber orchestra.

You turn your legs in,
let out a breath
so your shoulders flutter
and then fall.

Your hands hover over your knees,
fingers alive.
I do not think there are vowels
to sound what they are doing.

Maybe the Neanderthals had a word for it,
something we missed by an inch or two.
Maybe they were rendered mute
by the wonders of their hands and eyes.

Your fingers go still, hands

collapse into your lap.
You smile as if you’ve found some clearing.
The light falls faster,
webs of sun,
shade.

It is strange how such small things give us hope.