Hail, bright crescent, curving knife of evening,
whose silver edge cuts like the breathless gale
that rattles branches leafless by howling,
and fells such trunks as are not sound and hale.
Chipmunk huddles underneath verdant yew.
Crows croak to each other seeking the dead.
Signatures of frost, writ on morning dew,
foretell first snowfall. All songbirds are fled:
phoebe and wren, robin and whippoorwill
must warble their trills somewhere — but not here.
Four more moons, and this forest cover will
erupt with beetles and bees. For now, deer
shall wander under your widening gaze,
that strips autumn bare like bark beneath adze.
The house is getting to the point of looking good. I have to go do the grocery shopping for Thanksgiving dinner today, early this afternoon rather than later. Planning to go to poetry in Providence tonight. Not sure what else is on the agenda.
