Published on: 1/25/2010
November

Calendar turns to months of unfettered sarcasm:
bright colors of the dead, the ear's chilly ache,
stifled song of sparrows trapped in their own throats.
Mama's heavy as houses, more birth brewing in her gut.
Blustery wind spins humming oak spokes.
Child-memories are bestowed on pale leaves,
temporary triumphs of skittering hares.
Ice puddles are skimmed by dying dragonflies.
Old women wrapped and park benched,
sit stiff and sour as dogs in a Chinese temple.
Ancient men nod off in their jackets,
skulls nibbling on bony shoulders.
Eyes can't let go their stone-hard silence.
Breath makes cloud of intermittent tongues.
I sit beside the fire, dragon's breath on my neck.
Flames are the show. My heart sways in the aisles
Drizzle turns the corner into snow.
Crystals disperse their perpetual light.
Soon, there's nothing but dimming of shared history,
dark tracks of the crows