Lyn Lifshin
Just Before Ice Wind
Slams the Butternut,
October 28

impatiens linger,
a few rose hips

The crickets, less loud.
Wood smoke.

Rust leaves hang
on, let slivers of the

pond thru. Some
branches, bare bones

already. It's a hot
cider with a cinnamon

stick day when no
bad news would be