November by Cazenovia Creek

November by Cazenovia Creek

Clear sky, flying clouds. Elsewhere
a terrible storm — tornados
in the southeast, hail in the Dakotas;
in Buffalo, high winds. But here
along the creek,
in thin late-afternoon sun,
in Arleen’s woods,

only the sound of the river,
wind held in the cupped
hands of trees.
Molasses sunlight, a tang
of darkness. The afternoon
distilling. Over the creek,
one last dragonfly.

Leaf by leaf, stem by stem, wing
by wing, light releases
the thing it holds. Releases
the cups of my lifted hands —
spotted, knot-boned, odd
as an old branch. Thumb joints
like dragonflies.

A few late berries, a few asters,
and this bush with the light
behind it: nests of whitish fluff,
fibrous, coherent —
within each, a single dark seed.

Similar Posts