It Begins when the Leaves Turn | Grace Wells

She tied the blushed bohreen leaves. Faced north.
Took stock. Heard summer end in the thrum
of small creatures at harvest, in flickering
wing-born hearts deciding course mid-flight.

On darkening roads she would 
drive the scarlet car,
unraveling time, driving to meet him.

Days going out into her garden, fingers charted
each increasing blemish, mould spores, wilted
stems. She turned branches, put her lips
to the small brown details of decay.

She owned the land, loved how winter
crept forward, took possession. How the promise
in its breath stirred her, frost lining each vermillion leaf.

bohreen — an Irish word for a narrow road or lane.
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commentary | poetry | fiction | chicago | autumn 2007  
Household Poisons | Thomas King
It Begins when the Leaves Turn | Grace Wells
The Intolerable Nature of Yearning | Katie Kidder
Figure 2 | Lindsay Bell
Egressive | Amy Groshek
Kampala 2012 | Damian Dressick
Today, October the Ninth | Allison Shoemaker
This House | Edward Mc Whinney

Contradiction | from the editor


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