Here’s a Peter Everwine poem for your Monday. I was reading from his book, “from the meadow,” this morning as I looked out the window from time to time at an over-hanging sky and yellowed leaves across the way. The year is turning down to All-Hallows Eve at the end of this week and so this poem seemed particularly appropriate.

It Was Autumn

It was autumn,

its iron gates darkening

with smoke and oils.

In the fields

the water turned in its nest,

the weed put down its plow and slept,

the minerals awakened.

In the heart of a tree

the moon was building a small fire.

And by its yellow light

the crickets assembled and read

from the book of crickets:

the generations

the labors

the black rains milling at sea.