Poetry: Autumn

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