I walk beneath the oaks in their autumn
rustle of orange flames burning summer
from limbs wondering if the robin’s song
still clings to its abandoned nest or has
the wind swallowed the memory of rebirth.
The sky above me is a cloud of wings
chasing a resting place where snowflakes
have never frozen their place in vocabulary,
the mating call is silent, home is a gypsy camp
waiting for instinct to find north again.
In this beautiful landscape of dying I collect
visuals to charm me through the skeleton hours
of frost when daylight is a mere thought
between bookends of midnight and prayers for spring.
©Susie Clevenger 2014