44.
October is a curious month.
Yearly harvest gives it up,
cool winds blow and gust down and out
of Cascades and even
further up through
and over the Rocky
Mountains, the bone skeleton
tree branches tremble for it.
And the hiss-cage-roar
of the lawn mowers, the blue
thin plume of exhaust just
before stowing it all away
for another winter to collect
whatever winter-long twinkle dust
in the garage.
A month of giant impossible
moons flooded in rust yellow
light and candy wrappers
fluttering drearily down
small town street gutters
after all is shut down
for the night.
For several Octobers in
a row I found myself
wrought with untimely
disasters.
But for some reason now,
that has calmed itself
down.
I suppose disaster
still has time to leap in,
October hasn't quite
gotten over itself
yet.
(October 28th, 2014)
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