new this month
Harvest is autumn...
the long afternoons shading into nights already turning chill
but, there is still a gloss upon the land, increase yielding
- before the winds turn
again, and growth shuts down.
Pathetic fallacy at the ready,
I’d thought to offer winter at the end.
A cheap conceit, in the face of a grief which knows no seasons...
How can we even begin to conceive of an accidental self-slaughter
that we survive...looking down into what was both a mirror
and truer reflection, bloodied in an instant...
as the tines slipped.
The story is in our family.
Its weight - as in, perhaps, all of the truest stories -
is in the event...rather than its embroidery.
A boy died when his twin’s pitchfork slipped.
In truth...there were no survivors, as neither spoke again. So,
the tale is merely that which was witnessed...its subjects only objects
to our imaginations.