Waves
slapping the quay
as if enraged by the monotony
of their monochromatic grays
explode,
frothy and frenzied,
rabid lips curled in disdain
for my insignificant witness
or for the ancient knowing
that old October is almost over.
Herring gulls,
sounding their bugles
as if insulted by the treachery
of a traitorous Indian summer
cry out,
adding an afterthought
(eh-eh-eh-eh…)
that hints of uncertainty
or of an ancient acceptance
that old October is almost over.
Weathered oak
shushing her branches
(as if she knows not
what will come)
shudders
each time a leaf lets go,
as if keening lost connections
to essential parts of herself
or her ancient premonitions
that old October is almost over.
Sandusky Bay
spilling before me
as if the shoreline
were a myth
beckons
with confidence –
as if I were young,
too young for heartache
or the ancient realization
that old October is almost over.
