November Song
with each raindrop
I look and pray
that there’s no small flake
soon the trees
will wear naked shame
arms bruised with
winter
a month ago, fall
called me to play
among the golden
and flame leaves
which swirled like
sky dancers
and fall let me
linger beneath harvest moons
away from mustache-issued
commands, uncleaned spaces, and time
which pinged with
apps’ annoyance
I splashed in
puddles that rippled with butter-colored lamplight
and laughed like a
five-year old
but now the
pewter-covered clouds
turn to cold,
diluted cocoa
I watch each drop
and wait
for the fortress
of flakes
Autumn Sunday
rain falls,
whistling
mud tugs at my ankles, wanting to play
not a single truck roaring with exhaust
or golf carts careening
or papers on a desk pushing me to
precipices
just flame and golden leaves
shimmering
against pewter-coloured clouds
light flickers from a distant cabin
Ponderosas rise, a mighty fortress
ripples in a puddle
swirl round and round
no credit card statements, angry
voicemails, meandering dust
just a deer who glides, and then another,
tails swishing
as if space is no construct
at home I trip on every stair,
clickety-clack crashing, but no matter
take a step forward now
it’s Sunday
a soft liturgy on rainswept lips
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA fiction program. His stories, "Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” and "Tales From A Communion Line," were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash's work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.
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