Who will make Your long bed, Smooth your grass quilt,…
September arced across the mountains, a warm
hay-breeze swirled among the graven stones, nudged
faded oak leaves to chatter, stirred the scent of carnations
and the sharp odor of mums that rose from that patch of turned earth.
The day a mountain postcard, dogwoods rusted at woods’ edge
behind the church and buckeyes blazed among the green.
For weeks, that perfect sky taunted me and turned
into October – those days that cause me to chant Yeats
as I walk the dry paths and shuffle gold with my feet.
November came to save me. The rain dripped from eaves,
felled the gaudy leaves, and closed the sky
so I could shut the windows, light the fire, and keen into my tea.