Earth clears its field, stripped wet and raw,  

and I can finally hear what it’s hearing:

engines oily searing asphalt everywhere,

the circling hawk’s spiraling claw,

the football clatter in my brain.

September’s festive barge floated away,

bronze October set sail,

now November’s gray glory docks into its pier.


I took a slow walk this morning,

bent low, alarming the neighbors,

but I was merely examining evidence:

Sometime last night November

picked up an hour and took a fall,

stumbling backward.

A bruised memory rides the air

where the extra hour used to be.


Shaking off trauma and deficit,

the 11th month steps out now

in silver leafless light,

extending a damp open palm to greet

the winded year, its winding down,

and seeing me motions me over,

saying take my hand,

stand out here a while with me.

© copyright 2023 Ray Waddle


Waking I walk the wet

green slope sun-risen to find

the trees listening, so I listen.

Easter spreads through town,

confusing the violence,

courteously engulfing it.

What we cling to’s a cadaver now –

the killing machines of conviction,

the braggart of power, that old chieftain.

After so much disinformation

we’re still too dazed to move.

So homecoming courteously finds us.

© copyright 2023 Ray Waddle