October is the shawl around the shoulders of winter
The be-draggled be-gonias that will fast be-gone
Lavender shadows in the soft silver hair of the elders
And in the air of an aging year that will not go down quietly
The bite of the noon breeze is sharper than my mother’s tongue
Keen
Whetted by the contrast of cerulean and coppery shades
Shimmering in the reluctant light
As it pulls the unknowable close
October rustles her shawl
Tucked snug around the thin days
And turns inward.
Jaylene Whitehurst
October 2, 2015
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