Death’s Tap

Frost makes frozen confection of the lawn

while ice forms– too soon–upon the pond

and mirrors the bare season to come

with angled etchings of  broken twigs

The dock is slippery when I cross

so I proceed with care

as if at a viewing

of Summer past

Just as I step down upon the rock

that leads back to the road

I am tapped on the shoulder

by a hanging branch




Kelly Salasin, Late Autumn 2009

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