by David Mullen

Created on: December 12, 2008

Falling

an early walk in mid-November

wears a mourning face.

cotton-woods half bare.

their skeletal fingers

scratch the gray

of a solemn sky

a scythe wind cuts

marrow deep

and trees shed

leaves like dry

brown tears

on bowed heads

of sallow grass.

the crow linger

in long shadows.

November is hard,

the tough rind of fall.

harder still this year

of empty store fronts

and creeping poverty.

in a vacant lot,

I raise a leaf,

a cracked parchment

curled tight against the cold

and wonder:

did it loose all hopebefore it finally let go?

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