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Text Box: Transfer Station by Ken Shiovitz Purple leaves stubborn-clung to Maple, Crinkled upward pointing lobes, Vein-protruding survivor hands, Malformed, yet recognizable in prayer. In contrast, bare lay ancient Ginko, Disloyal yellow fans abandoned, Dumped entire in two days time, Blown vacant from mounded base of trunk. Driving in late autumn stirs the poet, Draws attention to nature’s color, Bathes the soul in warmth unseasonable, Blurs all sense of things abnormal. No traffic except garbage truck in left-hand lane, Permits full sense of autumn bounty, Turning right across my path, Delight-to-doom takes but an instant. The insect body, I have been taught, From early age in Science class, Has three wee parts that work in tandem, The head, thorax, and abdomen. An instant’s glimpse of first the head, Shining bright from chitin shell. Predator turning toward its prey, Dwarfing inevitable morsel of fate. Now thorax and abdomen loom above, Chitin shell so clearly iron, Lever-legs protrude obliquely, Cephlo-thorax will smash my head. I always thought that I was Maple, Clinging hard for life’s addendum. Never would I quit and drop, Like Ginko, aboriginally young. Soft lawn beyond feelers fatal, Ignore firm curb, just miss that pole, Suddenly, sweet driveway beckons, Outstretched arms draw love embrace. Miracles endure but moments, Sweet scent of spring in autumn’s turn, Summer warmth in displaced season, Life’s full senses simultaneously sung. Truck was turning into alley, No miracle, just events that were, I still said prayer of grateful thanking, Hugged secretaries when I arrived.

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