what will be

November

has already

made husks of

what once was

 

the sky charcoal streaked

I work fast

against the nearing dusk

 

releasing wilted plants

stems collapse

withered fruit, now tombs

for cutworm, roll away

 

tired soil soon tucked under

sheets of russet leaves

my beds readied

for hibernation

 

I pause

cheek on rake

wood worn smooth

and want

my own gestation

 

deep silence

to swaddle me

stretch womb wide

a season of my own

making from what once

was cells inchoate coalesce

in increments of self

gathering already

to ripen into

what will

be