RICHARD FREED

  

Autumn: A Painting

Although he is lost
(and probably has been for miles)
the boy does not appear displeased.
The day is pleasant enough, and lately
(the dog has known it for miles)
there is opossum in the air.

Not fifty yards away is where
they have been going all along.
It is a field of mourners
(the corn like old women hunched
over brooms), and in their kept rows
the dead opossum lies,
sending announcements by wind.

Others are there before them:
Maggots are risen and prosperous
(though much has been stolen);
and this boy, soon there beyond
his knowing, will watch as his beast,
its back to the opossum pressed
hard to the earth, turns
in all the movements of love.