the turning season

November 11th, 2012

My head was heavy
when I laid me down to sleep
the wind still sweeping the sky
the leaves crumpling at their end
like the paper bags
we used to hold old newspapers
when there were newspapers
our brand being the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner,
a fealty as final as Pepsi or Coke
the afternoon paper on your porch said your dad’s collar was blue

when there were collars
and porches
and afternoons.
There will always be leaves.
They are piling up these days,
a mountain of yesterdays.
I don’t know how high the mountain will be
I only know it is deep.
We called it a newspaper drive back then,
giving them up was good.
I looked at you, the long stretch of you,
not looking at me
and said, for lack,
You used to be so little, I loved you so much.
Do you remember that?
and you said no.

For my sisters, on a November day, 2012.


  1. So beautiful — those are words, still inchoate, in my own head, sent to my own two beautiful sisters —

    Comment by Elizabeth Aquino — November 11, 2012 @ 9:12 am

  2. autumn has always had an ache to it, but it becomes less metaphorical, more real, when age and season come closer to matching . . .

    Comment by Laura — November 12, 2012 @ 4:54 am

  3. Keep writing poetry. (Everything you write is poetry.) I always marvel: the fewer words you use, the more you seem to say.

    Comment by Katrina Kenison — November 12, 2012 @ 4:56 pm

  4. Echoing Katrina.

    Comment by Jena — November 13, 2012 @ 5:12 pm

  5. So many things I’ve taken for granted. Newspapers, porches, sisters. My entire life is just a season

    Comment by Dawn Downey — November 14, 2012 @ 10:14 am

  6. Yes! And thank you!

    Comment by Anissa — November 16, 2012 @ 6:16 am

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