Sunday, September 23, 2012

Equinox on Prudence Drive

The dogwood in fall
red leaves and berries

Curled in waving
transcendent swirl

Of how immeasurable death is,
how fertile its black soil.

The red and yellow flowers
stand like angels in the shag

Of withering greens,
shown bones of trees.

Each house allows its ghosts
a creaking jaunt about the place.

The smell of gold pine needles
and the sawdust of first harvest.

The blue mailbox
becomes the center of the world.