(Craterellus cornucopioides)
These are not trumpets cast
in the throats of the dead
who've lent their stores
of calcium to the soil.
No flourish or fanfare
heralds the turning
of the season, but the moon
lays her pewter dish on the table.
Can you see it where you are;
can't you see it isn't a mirror?
Even I am guilty of magnifying
every dust-mote of sorrow.
I can't bring back what's lost
or what chose to go away. Sometimes
I can only bring one thing into focus
but that, too, can be a kind of joy.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
