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      October 7, 2016AutumnBill Rector

      Last night I kept pulling
      gloves from the pockets of my coat.
      O abyss of my winter coat’s pockets!
      As they fell
      the gloves turned into leaves,
      curled palms of maples,
      stubby fingers from oaks,
      gray fists of ash.
      I woke up.
      I thought of you.
      But then I always do.
      I considered the hours to come,
      the first thing to be done,
      and the next.
      All day my hands were cold.

      from #52 - Summer 2016

      Bill Rector

      “My poems are asymptotic curves that approach, but never reach, what I wish to say. But sometimes the approach is close enough for the meaning to be glimpsed. ‘Autumn’ was written after the death of my daughter.”

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