Monday, October 5, 2015

A Night with Autumn

Walking beneath the twigs that haven't left the tree
the ones that are gnarled, and bent,
from wounds and the winding of the wind,
I wait for their whisper and only hear
the whimper of wolves
in the distance, so distant from me
and distant from moon, and the forest
and the barren branches; all that I feel
is the howl of the cold.

-D. Sabin