In This There is Autumn by Rebecca Jackson

_In This There Is Autumn_

She sheds her dress like an old skin
and draws on the lake’s flesh,
(darkness, chuckling softly,
quenches her
in his hand,)
her movement is the first
bare breath of storm
shivering against the water

she moves
opaque and unmade–
her body assimilating
the season;
the black of branches engraved,
the raw indigo of
circling water

she becomes the vivid scent of rain
clutching the roots
of summer grass,
her body
consumed by water
she becomes
the inauguration
of motion
the secret awareness
of autumn
she becomes