Sól rises late
on fields scorched sallow,
weeds furred in frost.
October’s metamorphosis
ignites a red-orange wildfire
in the treetops.
It spreads to the undergrowth,
curls the tongues of ferns,
emblazons the carpet.
The season’s gathering rust
sends wild things for cover.
Maples bleed
before winter’s breath
stiffens their bones.
All too soon the leaf piles vanish
in wisps of smoke
from gasping funeral pyres.
A cold shudder of wind
stirs dust in the creek bed
and the sun sets too soon.
—
Ginger Dehlinger writes in multiple genres. Although better known for her novels Brute Heart and Never Done, her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including the 2019 Zingara Poetry Review Mother’s Day issue. You can find her in Bend, Oregon or at www.gdehlinger.blogspot.com
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