Author: willstheone

Almanac Days

These are almanac days, I feel Autumn crushing down the hours.

Too cold to stand outside, but I am back of Jasper again, I need the air,

Framing your face in a fall of locks —black Autumn, down by the locks,

Setting out and forth; setting aside the lines against your smile.

Your eyes avoid me like orbiting moons. You’re pulling back your hair,

Lips like dancing a slow cabaret, gently hiding starlight.

Trees offended the flatness, the bled, so we plucked them out, and fed

Have you been dreaming of herons, Great Blue Herons?

Moss, anticipating, grows to pad your steps. The last cycle and harvest of storms,

I miss those flies, I guess. I miss the persistant stench;

Hog's Back

How have we come to where we are; how have we turned down silent rivers,