Sigh— you my praise

[joel]

When cherry trees for autumn leaves first turn
and simmer down September’s brown and blood
and brittle touch—then, inasmuch pale petals burn
for paschal decorations, beckons ruddy
coolness come that, just as from the first
mere nascent signs of fall’s designer rest,
as surely wrenches heat, as surely quenches thirst,
as surely cools Bethesda’s pools the blessed—
this autumn be implicitly my home,
explicitly a tent for me; and pitch
for me a tarp as leaf-lights sharp and chrome
as polished balm all astronomic – switch –
What glories grace this length of space compressed
on outward gaze? Sigh— you my praise professed.