Joyce Ryckman 


poem for October, 2013

When  leaves whirl skyward it’s October.

The air bites.  Winds wrap trees.


Fading leaves.

Yellow Month.


Clearings empty of laughter and feasts

laid out on weathered boards.


In the scattered light darkness hides within the glow.


The storms begin with sounds from unseen places.


A field left empty.  A fire lit.

A thick growth of trees at Winter-Full-Moon.