Doug Van Hooser

Crab Apple Pips

 

Every day in my November

The sun arrives late, leaves early

The wind whistles a dissonant tune

I rake the souls of leaves

 

For some reason this year 

There are no acorns

Chipmunks must wonder why me

As they bore their burrow deeper

 

The shades of brown are questions

I don’t want to hear

The stoic oaks give no hints

The mums oblivious 

 

Frost has sunk its teeth

Snowflakes pirouette 

I wander through this denouement

A sparrow still finding seeds

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