two days before The Election,
wanting less of the world,
waiting to be counted,
turning back the clock
(may it signify nothing)
as the woods go bare,
firewood stacked and covered,
hailstones bouncing off the tarp
as the wind presses down
on the dying field,
the ghosts of plants
still filling our view
as well as when they were green,
and so it is with ourselves,
pleased as we must be,
those of us still standing,
with what remains.
