The Last of the Firewood By Doug Lonsdale

the last of the firewood

is piled up
in the lingering twilight

already

the moon is adrift and rising

in stately silence
through the ragged silhouette

of jack pine

full of promise
drunk with stories
and legend
of
the season unfolding

now
in softer hues
tinting crisp days
and
conjuring a deeper tint

into the depths of the nights
quieter now
songbirds flown and gone
mothers have called their children home

the silence deepens

the stillness settles

softly
expectant
crickets and moonlight

and moonlight

crickets
and moonlight

Scroll to Top