October 25

comments 8

With light, a shadow,
after the tide, an ebb–

Nothing wholly itself,
everything containing
a trace of its own leaving.

The yellow morning
catches in the spider web’s
sheer girder, an ode

on capability, and a dirge
for the inevitable–

There is a chill now at dawn.
Sometimes I don’t know what to say:
It’s no joy to always consider

all that is possible.
The gothic ruin of these late
October maples, a pang of beauty

sometimes so sharp–
but then my breath takes shape
in the air,

the mud, frosted over,
gleams like ground glass
and another day begins

with gratitude,
the eventual and only
lesson of loss–


    • I was going to comment on exactly the same line … in fact I’d go further and wonder if “the eventual and only lesson” might be the title of the poem (that it doesn’t have)


      • Some of us lack the knack for coming up with titles that others seem to have… please feel free to offer title suggestions at any time 🙂


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