November pares us like green apples,
Circling under our skins
In long, unbroken spirals until
We are sweet flesh for the elements
Charles Wright, "A Journal of English Days"
Ragged echelons of the last geese leaving.
For three days I've not spoken to anyone.
The squirrels bury every hazelnut I scatter,
Instinct stronger now then even their hunger.
Two nights of hard frost and now a frieze
Of clouds and wood smoke lowers shadows
On harvested fields and the edge of town,
Windows here and there opening into light,
A clattering in the catalpa warning of rain,
Wind in the pines the remembered sound
Of autumn brushfires catching and flaring,
Swaying like a hay field before first cutting.
From far across the commons a woman's
Calling and calling, rising into the first faint
Silent stars; this answer she will never hear.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2015-11-10 at 15:10
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