Sunday, October 16, 2011

Just More Wind

The wind makes the house creak like an old banjo
being lifted from its case, singing old memories
down chimneys, swirling up the dusty hearth.

Autumn always arrives this way, in an instant
without regard of any need for warmth.  It strips
a tree bare quickly, like an unfamiliar lover strips
a woman that he doesn’t really love at all.  

In this way, one thing ends to let another begin.
A crow sits on top of a telephone pole, feathers
gusting in defiance of winter.  She puts
on the kettle and sighs as it hisses .

Swirling up the dusty hearth, down chimneys
she sings memories like an old banjo being lifted
from its case.  The wind makes the house creak.

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