You Gave Me Autumn

You Gave Me Autumn

You gave me autumn in an envelope. 
The rich light burned within my bones like gold. 
It sent the sun down with a vivid shout. 
The air pulsated with its after glow. 

I felt the mood of old November roofs, 
Redolent with their Appalachian fires. 
The dusk lasts long in West Virginia, Friend. 
Its fall cannot be heard by human ears.

by Sandra Fowler

Dear One Absent This Long While

Dear One Absent This Long While


It has been so wet stones glaze in moss; 

everything blooms coldly. 

I expect you. I thought one night it was you 

at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs, 

you in a shiver of light, but each time 

leaves in wind revealed themselves, 

the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak. 

We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove. 

In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires 

over which young men and women leapt. 

June efforts quietly. 

I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall 

so even if spring continues to disappoint 

we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain. 

I have new gloves and a new hoe. 

I practice eulogies. He was a hawk 

with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs 

of a salamander crossing the old pony post road. 

Yours is the name the leaves chatter 

at the edge of the unrabbited woods.

What the Drum Doth Tell

The Fat Old Couple Whirling Around


The drum says that the night we die will be a long night. 

It says the children have time to play. Tell the grownups 

They can pull the curtains around the bed tonight. 

The old man wants to know how the war ended. 

The young girl wants her breasts to cause the sun to rise. 

The thinker wants to keep misunderstanding alive. 

It’s all right if the earthly monk is buried near the altar. 

It’s all right if the singer fails to turn up for her concert. 

It’s good if the fat old couple keeps whirling around. 

Let the parents sing over the cradle every night. 

Let the pelicans go on living in their stickly nests. 

Let the duck go on loving the mud around her feet. 

It’s all right if the ant always remembers his way home. 

It’s all right if Bach keeps reaching for the same note. 

It’s all right if we knock the ladder away from the house. 

Even if you are a puritan it would be all right 

If you join the lovers in their ruined house tonight. 

It’s good if you become a soul and then disappear.

The Poetry of Max Meunier: The Silence of Forever

my spirit longs to be the stars that fill your sky my heart would shine reflections of its truth to lift you up into a realm where solace sings redemption that once you laid upon me by the mercy of your kiss but even vigilance has lost its vested path these broken roads no longer […]

via The Silence of Forever — Max Meunier

The Corpses of Trees

The Corpses of Trees 

by Michele Habel-Coffey

There is but smoke again. Only the embers of the McDonalds bags and the exoskeleton of a box of wine remain, glowing. The sun sets on another day.

Eveything is soaked. Wet, grey and cold are draped overarchingly, with raised white eyebrows. They watch. They remember.

I need the fire today. The scent of smoke from one of God’s creations burning. I won’t change my shirt before bed. The corpses of trees smell like home.

The smoke belches forth in a pushing plume of white and grey – but cold doesn’t claim the tattered shell of the coalminer’s hand-crafted fire box. His welded workings fence the flames. The smoke gives way and the flames rise, but do not sprawl. The forest smiles. Today I am thankful for the man’s box.

With my winter-white hand I push down on the last of the Christmas tree branches and just after I am safety distant, a fire bursts to life.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The Christmas tree is burning. And the fragrant scent of pagans rides the wind.

Deep bow. Day One.