windshield reflection empty trees
cold air last year,
when i thought i knew what emptiness was.
when i thought i knew the feel of chill across my skin.
i knew so little.
little was enough.
november begins with leaves on the trees
and another funeral.
two more in truth.
i am getting good at this,
at the ordering of flowers,
at understanding no calla lilies anywhere,
at black dresses and high heels,
at hugs that hold back heartbreak,
at reading faces and waiting in silence.
i skirt around the edges of these deaths;
they are not my stories to tell.
my story is that the jeep needs washed
and i think i need stockings
and i should eat.
my story is that the year stays upside down,
shaking till it is all emptied out.
my story is a yard full of autumn birdsong and sunshine.
one leaf twirling down from the hackberry tree,
spinning into the creek,
and then another.
one at a time.
they don't seem unhappy about it.