November
Beauty of remnants:
wan leaf under log
a paper scallop shell,
pale-peach color.
A rough ribbon of aspen bark
rasps against its trunk,
a violin, a sound
of one hand clapping.
Cold morning, even sunlight
hunkered down.
Earth has borrowed the moon’s pallor,
certain, pure.
The sere plains, blanched with frost
flow forward from the hills
like the flanks
of some enormous beast.
Silence whispers
a strange song,
soon, soon.
~ Twyckenham Notes, Fall 2018
