It wasn't fall when he died, closer to winter's heart, when birds abandon bare trees, dew sets forth its layers. No delicate blossoms lined our path, none of spring's hopeful renewal, just tired trudging, winter's dirty boots, a sterile hospital room unfit for a two year old's play. He unhinged from existence, a blazing gold leaf fluttering in autumn afternoon breeze. He took flight, marking grief's season. We grouped, pile of leaves shed, around his hospital bed, then his memory.
Article by Hilary Devine
I am a parent, a teacher, and a poet. I grew up in Santa Rosa, CA. I’ve lived in Lake County for 15 years. I love to swim, and I was a competitive swimmer for many years. I also like to hike and run with my boyfriend and my son. I’m influenced by a wide array of poets including: Homer, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, Armando Garcia-Davila, and Lord Byron. I have a narrative style and use natural imagery. I usually write at least two poems every week.