Autumn Rain

by Simon Edgett

img_20161127_104408064
Photo by Simon Edgett

 

November dies slowly.
Cold wind and crisp leaves
cover the browning grass.
Naked tree skeletons branch out
from the ground,
stretch and scratch
at the sky.
Honesty contradicts itself;
what else can it do?
I am cold. My heart
doesn’t beat fast enough
to warm all the way
to my feet and my fingers.

Trees eat themselves.
They lose their leaves,
allowing them to fall to the ground,
to deteriorate into the ground,
to nourish the trees’ roots,
to grow new leaves next year.

we bury our dead.

The woods, which surround my house,
smell of this rich compost:
dying, decaying, feeding.
All this brought on by life,
the cold,
and tiny bacteria,
hoveling through fallen leaves,
dead before they hit the ground.

 

Simon Edgett (@simonedgett) is a fraud. He lives in Connecticut where he pretends to be an administrator for a public school system. He spends the rest of his time running the blue-blazed trails of Connecticut’s woodlands, chasing his four-year-old son, and occasionally writing poetry.

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