146. not quite autumn’

brittleaves
or the
brown we
finger
into dust

not an
autumn
nor
a fall

green
as leaves
holds
onto
these
maples
still

false
summer
and cold
but
green
instead
of red
brown
yellow
gold

an
autumn
monochromatic

red fruit
around
the seed
of the
yewberry
begins
to
wrinkle
a bit
but I
still
eat them

scent
of feral
cat’s
urine
when I
open
the door
to
enter
the
house

a wind
and
darkness
comes
with it

clouds
to block
the sun
and a
day of
shadow
without
sunlight

though
there is
still
a glow
to
sunshine

skin
on hand
of neck
by arm
etched
with
stylus of
dead
thorn of
raspberry
of red
or black
that I’d
cut out
already
from the
earth

fighting
me even
in death

folded
the dry
raspberry
canes and
stacked
them in
bags
and the
tendrils
that
held onto
me were
the wires
cut free
that had
held the
canes
in place
in rows
in sun
in rain
and
arcing
over and
over one
another
again

brought
in two
pots of
flowers
today
one of
orange
one of
magenta
both in
mounds
even
pom-poms
to keep
them alive
a little
longer
into this
sliver of
life of
ours

the cold
is here
now
but not
enough
wood
for fire