In a cracked CD case,
he kept
October’s very
essence.
The month would ride in
on chilled maple winds,
and we’d begin
gathering twigs
from our
harvest garden.
After piling bark
for kindling,
we’d chop
potato fingerlings.
Then,
slathering the spuds
in oil and thyme,
we’d savor the
caramelize- the
slow-roasting.
Later, stuffed with carbs
and pumpkin carving,
setting aside slick seeds
for oven toasting,
he’d sneak off
to retrieve that
hallowed CD.
Carefully,
he’d place it
in the machine,
click play,
and we’d listen-
intently.
At first,
only soft whirring,
until suddenly-
Track one!
Cue whooshing ghosts
and rustling leaves.
Track Two!
Thudding feet
and ghoulish screams.
Track Three!
A cauldron bubbling
and a mad witch chanting.
These sounds
still shroud
my memory, and their
longevity
is baffling.
The way
audio seeps
into our psyche…
Can’t you hear
September
whirring softly?
pm poetry 