Issue Five

Autumn 2012




This is a day of little perfection,
the season shredded on the boughs
and the trees themselves sighing,
packed like rubies in a treasure chest.
If and when I ever die,
there will not be another season like this.

Clearly, the universe is about to end,
tucked in a pocket, little
pilfered treasures, and the birds:
theirs is music in its purest form.

A crow dances among the leaves, scattered
forgotten thoughts;
the pea-green grass is awaiting death
in the hollows of my footsoles.
Small gulls spiral and try to snatch
a free meal;
it’s a desertion of sorts
that mollifies the hunger of bees
before they converge in their winter habitations,
fickle as a god.
Like them, I cannot see
where there is left to go.



Caroline Misner



peacock fractal