HALLOWEEN
Too soon spent, the days
of work and contemplation.
I hear my stories rest
with how it used to be.
Yet the Buckeyes
still cling to leaves burnt dry,
each crooked twig, a ghoulish
fingernail aflame, dripping
fire or blood in streams
at their feet around
All Soul�s Eve
as month-old calves
bust and run in gusts
before a chance of rain
and new, green feed.
We begin again
to chase the weather �
feed hay, cut wood,
and wait to germinate
another string of possibilities.