That season of paradox
when plenitude lies
on the kitchen table,
ready for cellar and canning
and the drying trays,
when garlic hangs braided
from the beams and
herbs shrivel above the stove.
Yet, at the same time,
cobwebs hint of graves opening,
and the ghosts of All Hallow’s Eve beckon,
so that each fruit lying ready,
though in its prime, seems touched
with a hint of decay, and
sad leaves scatter the flower beds.
Naomi Beth Wakan
Gabriola, BC