October
By Martha Tamburrano (a.k.a my momma!)
This is the season of dying,
This October
When the crop no longer lifts its head
To greet the sun,
But offers the harvest and droops,
Bending its face to the ground.
This October, this time
Of bounty, of unutterable beauty
Yet filled with loss and mourning.
This October, when you, whom we loved
Exhaled your last breath
So quietly we were not quite sure
If you were still there.
This October, like you when you left,
Moves inexplicably toward the night of winter
Cold, dark and barren
Save the Narcissus bud
Pushing its way through the earth.
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