.
And comes that other fall we name the fall:
ecstatic, each spiked oak leaf, each slim withe
whirls low in flame—candleshine, pale champagne.
The quercus catkin, wind-rippled, limb-torn,
falls to the mulchy earth.
Acorn cupules
drop on the thatched, brown tapestries of duff
and Indian Pipes lower pale white hoods
like monks: sanctificetur nomen tuum.
October is on the march again.
Its stone, opal, protects against illness:
the scourge that flanks the fall, rattlebones, ague,
pyrexia.
The fire of the heart–
shaped ember leaves that fall in mourning now
will smolder, warming our hearth through winter.
Read this and more in Little Star #1!
Read The Oven Bird by Robert Frost (Hear an oven bird!)
And have a look at our blog, this week featuring new work by Tim Parks
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