The flush of leaving’s
what we notice most—
thus, the white glint
of a steeple on the ridge
across the river under
a sky preparing for stars,
wisps of cloud alchemizing
pink to orange. All miracle,
not least for not involving
us, who under this, in this,
take it for granted, else
meet madness or find God.
We have a lot to lose
and we will some season.
Meantime: these bare trees
to which the birds come
back, filling the branches
the way from dreams
from sleep each morning
we come back to ourselves.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 6.
Edward Wilson’s poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Georgia Review, The Midwest Quarterly, Poetry (Chicago), The Southern Poetry Review, The South Carolina Review, and others. His awards include an Individual Artist Fellowship from the state of Georgia, a Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference Fellowship and an NEA Fellowship. His collection, In a Rich Country, published in April of 2019, won the Grayson Books Poetry Prize and was selected as the 2020 Georgia Author of the Year Awards as the finalist for Poetry. He lives in Augusta, Georgia.
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