By Paul Hostovsky
I used to think spring was the sexiest season
but now I think it’s fall
with all its burning smells
and the musculature
of the impatient trees with their
red pants down around their knees
already—and all this talk of peak
foliage, which reminds me of the talk
of orgasms, which are both the point and
so beside the point. I mean look
how beautiful. I mean feel how impossible—
everything building, everything climbing toward a high
tingling, a ringing in the ears, a flying
down through the world from the highest
branches. When I was a kid
I’d stand with my back to the trunks of trees
(a kind of renunciation
of hide-and-seek) and count
with eyes wide open
the number of leaves falling right now,
then take off running, darting zigzag,
trying to catch them, to take them,
snatch them out of the air mid-dance before
they could touch the ground. I played that game
for hours and hours, years—
sweaty and breathless, happy
just to be catching the falling beauty
in my hands, then letting it go, throwing it back
into the world.
Paul Hostovsky’s latest book of poems is PERFECT DISAPPEARANCES (Kelsay, 2025). He has won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net Awards. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com.
A Curious Moon 