by Mike Jewett
Colliding in between the leaves of oaks
its embrace feels empty, soft and dull,
resting in the cracks within my skull
the settling fog absorbs into my bones.
Comfortable like coffins lined with velvet
burying the sunshine in its blood;
howling, solemn cries that rest in mud,
invisible, the cries of loons and egrets.
Given over to decomposition
autumn’s apples rot among the leaves
and clover frozen in the fog’s reprieves
as if they had a winter’s premonition.
There are no words for one who’ll not come back;
those watery pleas have died in fog so black.