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About This Poem
OCTOBER
OCTOBER
The gull senses it
Just his usual cry, yet something portends
Something come alive
A relaxed, quiet intensity
Strange, like a trembling, single leaf, or
A dozen late, pink roses – one white rose
Laying out, watching the sky
The grass – damp chill against the bones
October’s sensation? Well, not love exactly.
Thrill describes it
Distant roar of the stadium crowd
Footballs in the air
Spiraling, - spiraling to nowhere
The roar – now it becomes you
You become it
The visible, the invisible action of it all
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