Sally Bliumis-Dunn – Ⅱ

November 

 

 

 

 

 

The cold air has come in

 

like an invisible tide,

 

and I am walking in our yard,

 

 

 

under the watery air:

 

 

 

curls and twists of fallen leaves

 

like ripples in sand,

 

the air, full and deep –

 

 

 

full, I think, of stillness

 

from all that is not growing –

 

leaves, branches, even

 

the grass has stopped;

 

 

 

the air can hold no more

 

like an ocean at high tide.

 

 

 

I sense it. And

 

the deer in the yard

 

whose eyes seem wider to me,

 

 

 

seems like she senses it too.