Indian Summer
I hike the ridge on the last warm, tousled day,
speckled as a partridge egg,
sun already stilting
shadows in early afternoon.
The leaves
are October butterflies, crimson, gold.
I want to stop earth's tilt-a-whirl right here,
hold this moment that feels so much like love
before the winter’s swordsmith hones his blade.
On Kebler Pass
dust the ferns with my ashes --
there, among the aspen
trembling gold against the sky.
Let them settle, sighing,
on the still warm earth of autumn
where the next peak calls your name.
Snow will come. The wind will show me
paths only does and vixens know.
The moon will call me with her crescent mouth
and share stories of the embered stars.
Sarah Russell has returned to poetry after a career teaching, writing and editing academic prose. Her poems have appeared in Kentucky Review, Misfit Magazine, Red River Review, Ekphrastic Magazine, and Black Poppy Review, among others. She blogs at SarahRussellPoetry.net
Two beautiful poems, Sarah. I love the idea of winter’s sword smith honing his blade. Well done :)
ReplyDeleteI liked the description of leaves falling in October as butterflies.
ReplyDeletecapturing colors and season with words. lovely.
ReplyDelete