Skein Home
Author's Works
View 24 comments
 

Overcast and damp and cold, and walking home

sloughing off the solvent of the day.

And curbs and black wet sticks, and graying pebble asphalt

slipping past in their abiding procession

through rafts of warm white breath.

But then in dimmer envelopes of bushes, brick facades

or heaps of stones or hoses, sheds or stumps

the hushed fortell of evening and

the smell, the bitter basal scent

of dampened frosted fallen leaves,

of yellow stem and mottled lamina,

of moisture and river winter.

Sticks and brick and sidewalks, stones and leaves,

I remember all of these, in borrowed moments, ten years later.