From the Cancer Ward
On a still October of record chill,
Trees are releasing their golden crowns,
Their brown crowns tinted with red.
Each specific leaf falls at its
Appointed unknown time,
Sometimes dozens in gentle waves
To curl upon the ground.
Trees are revealing their bones, good bones,
And all their scars and holes, their scaly lumps
That grow where limbs are excised.
Bare bodies staunch for winter ice, crisp sheets.
Late migrators rustle through the leaves before they're swept,
These things with feathers that burst up into the air
When there's danger, aloft, alive
Against the gentle tide.
"A child of my loins" stuck Alonso with a bad moment
as we read our way around the room counting paragraphs
and willing the clock.
"What are loins?" asked Audrey, blinking.
We sniggered and turned red. Audrey hid her face in her book.
The bell rang, and we dispersed, avoiding each other's eyes.
Copyright © 2004
Lori Joan Aron. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.