Bright Ones, Dull Ones


So many colors

In the garden, in fall

More even than spring,

I think


Fall is heaven, the harvest

Is death, death is heaven

Followed by winter, the cold,

The white


White will blanket

But before the blanket,

The dance,

The Fall,

The explosion


Of yellow, orange, red, pink

The flames,

The blazing sunset

Dramatic, glorious



By the quiet, steady evergreens

Who do not mind

Are not disturbed


They live on, patient,

Not judging the others

For their histrionics,

Their clamor;


And the bright ones

Do not scorn the evergreens,

Do not think themselves

Superior for their brightness,

Their color—


They do not find the pines dull.


And what, what, what am I?

A bright one, a changer?

A maple, burning red

Stripped bare

Budding green

Burning red again?

Or a pine, evergreen?

Ever green?


It’s all eternal anyways

It’s all ephemeral, too

It’s all One, and it’s all Infinite,

And it’s all finite.


What am I, I, I?

A gardener, spreading mulch.


Matthew Eighmy