Alone In A Yard In Georgia In The Fall

Let us glory in
barefoot steps
through wet grass
under oaks, maples,
and pines.

Mud girds the fence line
aromatic as blood,
sharp as iron
and copper
on my tongue.

Oppressive humidity
weighs like the day’s news,
clings with resonance,
sharpens the senses,
the smell of red brown clay

the discharge after birth
and the urge of life,
of pain, too, of wounds
older than memory,

every breath here
a viscous drink
gorged with this living soil
gloating steadfastness —

like its very history.

[sc name="ad-300x600"]


Maple leaves scream auburn and orange,
unrhymed, rapturous, brightest
in their flaming hearts
before they dance
down to carpet the yard,

there gathered
in brotherly piles
with half-eaten pine cones,
parched grass, fragile fur, and feathers,
all doggedly attesting to the need
of fellow travelers to our last
dry breath.


Photo by Matt on Unsplash