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The landscape is prepared for winter,
but there is no snow.
Such is November, the month
of withered leaves and bare branches,
the ghosts of plants almost as filling
to the eye as have been the green
in this month of shadows briefly seen,
dark flashes just beyond the limits of vision,
and you can't be sure you've seen anything at all.
First, we need a place to stand,
and last, a place to stay.
I've had both for 50 years, a conscious choice,
hoping, when it is my time, for a natural burial
in the ground I've lived upon,
an honorable progression, a rhymed demise,
a nutrient for oaks and goldenrods,
and a shadow worthy of these hills,
just beyond the limits of vision.
Live long enough alone
in one place and time,
and you may see such things.
A family of crows rides the wind.
A gibbous moon rises in the briars.
