When yellow leaves,
or none, or few do hang . . .

by James Richardson

If life is a year, then this is
November, just about the day
I’m thinking it’ll never get cold
and it gets cold; if life is a day,
then now is the darkening, serious
but not quite deep enough to sleep in;
if life is an hour, then I’m near the end
of a story I might or might not
finish in an hour. But life is a minute,
and suddenly looking up
from the page, who can tell
whether it’s the middle or end
or beginning of a minute?

Published on November 18, 2019

2019-11-14T22:12:17+00:00