End of the Farming Year

by John Grey

It’s early November.
Trees are shedding leaves
like divas do lovers.
Naked limbs shiver,
unprepared for the
north wind invasion.
The farmer averts
the gun to his head,
hugs his stock,
kisses his haystacks,
surrenders his fields to
coming winter.
His wife cries
the usual phantom’s tears.
Daughter Adele is fifteen,
stares at herself in the mirror.
Dreams support
whatever miracles are out there.
The farm knows nothing.
The bank knows everything.
Fog taints the mornings.
Dusk strikes early.
Night is bigger than day.
The clock is a metronome.
Likewise, first snowflakes.
Family huddle in cold rooms.
Windows close all around them.
Fireplace screams to be lit.
Patience is their peignoir.
Harmless singing, their footprint.
Christmas will be modest,
mediocre even,
but it least it will come.
Faces check each other out
for vital signs.
Breaths turn into Advent calendars.
Thoughts form like
radio signals,
broadcast unheard.
Another year ends
with keening sibilance.

© 2022 John Grey  All rights reserved.

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