Autumn by Karen Schindler

i.

Not the cedar waxwings eating fermented berries
from the front lawn’s mountain ash,

but the thump of their drunken bodies
against my window pane.

Not the evening’s cello lesson,
the part of the song where notes

rain down in slow motion,
but my music teacher telling me

I leave too early,
spend too long on the journey.

ii.

Have you seen the view
from my friend’s fourth floor balcony?

Windrows of leaves shored up
against the sidewalk, frost blossoms

in the trees?
It’s the way the night air

feels almost cold enough
to write on.

iii.

My neighbour is working in his lit garage again,
wearing a black apron

and swinging at something. His raised arm—
a paused metronome as I drive past.

I tend to my heart.
You can tell by the number of minutes

I stand at the bottom of my basement stairs,
eyes closed, armful of towels against my chest.

This poem was featured in Issue 07 of Canthius.

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Karen Schindler is the publisher of Baseline Press, a micro-press making poetry chapbooks since 2011. In 2021, Baseline Press will be joining Insomniac Press to become their poetry chapbook imprint. Karen served as the managing director of the Poetry London Reading Series for over ten years. Her poetry and book reviews have appeared in journals including The Malahat Review, The Antigonish Review, The Fiddlehead and Vallum.