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
