November

by Mary Bach

by Mary Bach

As I walk the ridge top
watching for rain
I wonder

what the tulips dream
tucked safe in their beds
for the long night of winter

what the wind sings
that inspires the leaves
to dance across along the fields

These things
I wonder
watching for rain
as I walk the ridge top

Grand Finale

The November temple is empty
the sacrifice finished.
Leaves scatter in the wind;
branches snap
like dry bones
of an unearthed skeleton.

The hole
in my graveyard chest
is empty
and black birds pick
at the pearls
which were my eyes.
 
Houdini’s midnight cape
settles with a flourish.
The show is over.