It’s Fall on an even-numbered year
which means an election looms, again.
We wander pumpkin patches, corn mazes, haunted
houses, make holiday plans, think what gifts to give.
The Atlantic Hurricane Season ends on November 30.
What if the winds do not heed the timeline? What if
the bridled horse bucks, the civilized comes undone,
the lasso runs wild, lynching cowboy and calf,
predator and prey? In the West, we pray for rain,
water is our salvation. Elsewhere the waters rise,
recede, reveal our devastation. Parched or flooded,
we make our claims, hold our hands out to ask
for help rebuilding. And what of the unsalvageable?
This morning I faced my dread, looked in the mirror
at the mangled face, touched the blood so thick
I could paint with it—a pastoral scene, perhaps,
mountains and cold lakes, or you, wet with anxious
sweat, kissing my nectar as the hive decides its fate.
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