A repressionist poem for late fall.
Where has
Summer gone?
Flown.
Forgotten.
Dead.
Autumn dumps
her bounty–
spoiled–
from every
bony bough.
And yet,
among the
crushed
and crumbling
memories remain:
the pods,
the husks,
the hollow
tufted stems.
A hope,
entombed,
and waiting
for the sun.
I love the simplicity of this one 
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