With the leaves gone
a pageantry departs
all pretense of grooming
as only the dead
are so transparent.

When I walk in them
a grove like bones
the sun makes clear lines.
I tend to think
in lifespans.

They overlap, the patterns
only seen from above
when the summer woods
are full of noisy green
rooms. But through

these colder limbs
a circular truth
doesn’t need explaining,
warmed by the razor-blue
of shorter days.



Image Credits: Marcela

L. Ward Abel

L. Ward Abel, poet, composer and performer of music, teacher, retired lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been published hundreds of times in print and online, including The Reader, Istanbul Review, Versal, Yale Angler’s Journal, Pudding, Indian Review and others, and is the author of one full collection and nine chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), The Heat of Blooming (Pudding House Press, 2008), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), and Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017).

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