October. Its brilliant festival of dry
and moist decay. Its spicy, musky scent.
The church's parking lot deserted
except for this one witness,myself, just resting there.
Somewhere a radio plays Flamenco.
A spotlight of sunshine falls on the scattered debris.
Blood-red and gold, a perfect circle of leaves
begins to whirl,
slowly at first, keeping the pattern,
clicking against the blacktop
like heels and castanets,
then faster, faster, faster. . .
round as a ruffle, as the swirling
skirts of an invisible dancer.
Swept off into the tangled woods
by the muscular breeze.
The hoarse cheering of crows.
Inside the dark empty church,
long cool shadows, white-painted wood,
austere Protestant candles thriftily snuffed,
Perhaps a note on the altar,
Gone dancing. Back on Sunday.
Dolores Stewart, from The Nature of Things
3 comments:
Oh I enjoy all of Stewart's poems, and this one especially...gone dancing!
How have I not read this one?
Please let me know how I can obtain a copy of the book by Delores Stewart. The Nature of Things. I have searched high and low in libraries and book stores. Thank you for your beautiful photography, prose and poetry. Gail Mueller gailemueller@gmail.com
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