~DEBORAH BOGEN~

NOVEMBER

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The trees have studied modern dance.
Isadora lives among them in
the length of their limbs,
the elegance of their geometry.
It's getting late and we have come to
depend upon such things—the flat
Necco moon and the emptiness of space
to hold us.

Something deep beckons
in this heavy month when pumpkins
are abandoned in the field,
and walnuts lay shrouded in dark
wet leaves. What's left undone
is near now,
we buy our peace with clinking coins.
And next year wisdom, we say.
Next year.

Oh weren't we all once the May Queen's
darlings? The ribbons of heaven
fell all around us.
Ah, then we believed in everything.
Then everything believed in us.

 
 

© by Deborah Bogen