November

Cob encrusted fields wall mudded path
where the leaves’ crunch has gone soggy-
frozen.

Ghostly voices whistle under empty trees,
whose dark limbed tendrils know
why the geese wail when they fly,
fading into frosted starlight.

A chimney burns, brews,
a heavy campfire roast
eerily reminiscent of all you’ve known before,
of a breath you’ve breathed before.


All Rights Reserved: Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson