Windfall
Fill my glass
and let it be. The night
moves over the unsodded graves
unquiet between
the roadhouse and road,
seventeen mounds
to home seven sins,
my vanities' bones,
my castaway loves, my old
car-killed cats.
Fill my glass
and let it come
at the end of the sky
when the broad brass sun
sets aslant on black apples
wind threw to ground, on
the last summer moths fluttering down,
warming them ripe for the locust's hall
with autumn's endings
packing the rows.
Fill my glass;
half empty is full. Let it be
as I drowse on the lawn,
sweet shattered moths and
brown thrushes for company, my
sore eyes wrapped with
a bandage of stars, peace
spilling into the void
where understanding
has flown.
August 2021
posted for
Images: Apples, Jug, Irridescent Glass, © Paul Gauguin Public Domain Manipulated.
Night Hill © Andrea Kowch All Rights Reserved Fair Use
Photograph of cat and wineglass from Sunday Muse, artist unknown. Fair Use
