November 2, 2018

cycle

Walking today
I was impaled by
tree after tree
lining their street;
pierced by green-now-gold,
hunched, leaning,
regarding loss,
small brown piles
in the gutters,
portents of winter's
descent into
weathering,
with only
bare-naked branches
to believe in the
implausible ghost story
called Spring.

1 comment:

  1. In Texas, we're not quite there yet! However, just around the corner and I'll be looking at a similar street and be thinking of your poem! The ghost story called Spring -- what a wonderful tale to speak of hunched around a campfire in the crisp autumn air!

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