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My prose poem, what I really meant, was published today in the 3rd issue of The Creekside Magazine which is self-described as, “reminiscent of camping as a child, of the wafting scent of baking cookies, the taste of cigarettes in the air at Grandma’s house. We want works suggest of or about home and belonging (whatever that means to you).”

Thanks for looking. I hope you enjoy it!

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tumbles of shriveled hydrangea

flyaways from our neighbor’s garbage

the rattle of northwesterly winds

frost warnings for the overnight —

an unsettling toward what comes next

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I strike at my chest —

ritual dictates three measures.

in truth, though, that’s only

just the suggested gesture.

my core, I could scoop

and hollow it out —

and then some.

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it begins in the far, upper reaches

of the north; some might suggest

at the very top of the world.

tiny whispers at first, a whistle, a hiss —

soon, a screaming, screeching banshee.

its momentum builds and grows and expands

across forests, lakes, rivers & ponds,

vast acres of woodland, mountains and plains,

spreading south into the disjointed States.

frigid cold, a raw & hungry wind —

a relentless ferocity that inundates the land.

seasons shift within seasons

and time is held captive

to the merciless impulses of nature.