There is an Autumn Within Us
which, when the wings fold,
comes as easily as habit, or instinct
which can conjure navigational maps from stars.
If the space within hollowed bones
had a voice, it might weep
for the season before sleep
when it vibrated with flight
over an Earth that seemed as it should:
incessant, growing, tangle of weeds, wheat, trees-
that could not be stopped, it seemed.
NO
To love a man like
that requires a mountain
of forgetting. Spring
still is in the heart.
The Lie
I sense it, like a mole
knows there’s more beyond
the clay wall
in front of him.
Snout bristling
he tunnels into dark, dirt packed
loosely at his sides,
stomach covered with stringy clumps.
Rooting, he knows full
well it could cave in
at any time.
Susan Waters started out as a journalist covering hard news in upstate
New York and for 13 years was a magazine editor and writer at the Virginia
Institute of Marine Science, College of William and Mary. Her publishing
credits are extensive. She has won 10 prizes in poetry and has been nominated
twice for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry. Her chapbook Heat Lightning was
published in 2017 by Orchard Street Press. Currently, she is Professor Emeritus
at New Mexico Junior College.
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