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 black rains milling at sea.