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In Late November

May 13, 2009 by · No comments

Richard Luftig

Photo: byrion

In late November,
the bank of autumn closes
its doors for the year, calls
in outstanding loans, issues
certificates of deposit
not redeemable until May
and bearing no interest
in our survival. Love falls

from our thoughts
like water in a crevice
of limestone only to freeze
then crack the surface
of our lives. We count
days slowed by wind
songs laden with snow,
waiting to awaken at first
call of a hunter’s moon.

Categories: Frontpage · poetry


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