November Calm Forgets Them
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
We want to sleep as pears and apples lined
Up in the autumn thinking not of graves.
Our cemeteries are too much refined.
New England’s basements hold the fruit in staves
Of barrels separately in sawdust or
In straw because eternity is not
A Shaker’s guarantee. While looking for
A quiet truth, the angels have bethought
Themselves of shiny richness in the seeds.
The seraphim involve themselves if death
Seems lingering and gentleness proceeds
From there protecting gentle coma breath.
October rests where Pilgrim pioneers
First set their roots. The fruit refuses tears.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Sep 27, 2024 | CE, DE, LA, MA |