morning poem, November 12, 2015


The beeches and the maples are bare

But the cold wind rattles the leaves clinging to the oak

Like the bones of a skeleton, they are dry and brittle

And have no joy in either day or night.


They quiver now, oscillating

Like the dits and dahs of some rapid radio code

Bony fingers blown horizontal in the wind

Like children shivering, without coats or shoes.


Let go, leaves, let go.


Copyright 2015

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