by Cherie Meyers, Michigan
I am folded into
the browns of November.
Under the cusp of the chestnut hull.
Through the russet oak of the tree line.
In a scattering of cones and seedpods hanging.
Beyond the wasp nest, bared.
Under a thousand starlings
resting in the old poplar,
then rising with a leafy wind.
Around wreaths of barbed wire rusting on the fence post.
Under a turkey in the oven,
greasy cracklings and pie pumpkin on the edge.
Seasoned into cordwood
stacked and waiting by the cabin door.
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