pm poetry

We left Shenandoah
mid-winter-
Both of us blushed from
the winds blowing bitter-
Hillsides crystallized-
Twilight-tinged-
frost and quiet-
All the forests stripped
to their creaky
fractal bones.

But when I think
of home,
it’s almost always
autumn-
The trees dressed
in golds and reds,
vagabond flocks
overhead, and all
the fields blanketed
by crunching hay
and foliage.

Memory is strange
and outrageously
selective.
For it’s always autumn
there and then,
in that timeless
tawny
heaven.