Listen to the rustle and tumble of falling leaves.
This music, this is death and transfiguration.
This is God and rejuvenation. This is me,
a poetess in autumn.
I am a lady of night and white.
I am a girl of cool green.
I am of the Taiga.
Oceans of sand have I crossed.
The Sahara on camel.
On tramp steamer, Havana.
I saw Fulgencio Batista's last days.
My ears turn seashells to the horns of Harlem.
Tonight, I stand on the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge,
awaiting a Gypsy troubadour to pen me a poem.
I am the fading light on the Palisades.
I am the sound of tires on rain-slick Central Park East.
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