March 2, 2020Autumn Elegy
I hold the pen & notepad, raised
to each other, but not touching.
Outside, the air thickens with
cold. Wind lifts the stiffened branches
of the apricot, wiping away
a few more of its leaves.
This is the shallow entrance
to winter, when sunflowers shrivel
like the faces of dead animals
on the roadside; when the earth
slows its breathing
& everything sinks into the long,
gray sleep. There was another murder
last night—another man, like me—
wide meadows of lives closed
by his gun. I am trying to write,
trying to do what I am able.
I sit in the warm house while everywhere
flowers wilt into nothing. Soil hardens
to ice & nothing gets in
or out. The apricot tree falls
to pieces around itself—
shriveled stones of fruit
thud below, & are buried,
slowly,
by the snow.
from #66 - Winter 2019