The cemetery’s
sexton
warned you shouldn’t
plant a thing
December 1st,
that nothing can
survive
its chilling gales,
this numb
we think as winter,
when it’s autumn
that’s to blame—
two-faced
in its tease
of second summer,
pulling out the
welcome mat
from under our
very feet,
strapped within
the sandals
of September,
donned the waning
days
before October,
crunching
shrivelled leaves
which had lost
their will to live,
their spectrum
of farewell
finally plunging
in November,
a kaleidoscope’s
mosaic
on the ground—
the soil
that’s beneath it
rigor mortis,
shovel in your
hands
forever failing
to make a dent,
the smack of
metal’s nose
as if upon
a heartless stone, bitter
and unyielding ,
what once
was a blossoming
shrub
now wind-stripped
of its beauty,
left with only
the rattle
of its bones,
muted
as the bird-chimes
on your porch,
none to hear
their soothing
melody,
windows
bolted shut
against the cold,
upon the sunlight’s
sinking lie
of lasting warmth,
eternal
as the love
she howled was yours.
Andreas Gripp
December 1, 2024
RF Image
Comments