By Catt Kingsgrave
I think that I could live all my life
In any country but October.
Spring, of course, who wouldn’t live forever
There? The first-robin days scented
With flowers on peach twigs, rose on grey.
Yes, I could live forever there. Summer,
Yes. Gold washed air
Heavy and sleepily clover smelling,
Dark green, adolescent leaves,
And the nod of summer flowers droning with the bees. Yes, there too.
Even dead winter, with the air
So heavy with cold, nostrils sneeze,
Where muted earth colours around the snow
Clouds of spoken thought hang in mid-air
‘til after the speaker has forgotten them
But October, no. Not when the rain converts
Autumn’s fallen glory to sloppy
Sponges that cling to your shoes like leeches.
The trees feel barest in October when the wind
Cries louder than ever, and the lost scraps,
Discarded papers scuttle forlornly before it.
Anywhere, but not October.