The Unseason
by Indira Sinton
retreat now
to a tangled scattered place
autumn is over
winter is not yet
it is the unseason
and most are afraid to journey
when you arrive
you’ll be alone
all the tourists will be gone
breathe in
crisp northern air
and
listen to crackling leaves
as they crumble blithely
to a new existence
tear off some clothes and celebrate
be a naked deciduous branch
absorb the cold
write a poem
about
thick dry wild plants
restless and intelligent
not doped
by sunshine
not sleeping yet
under snow that will come
stand
and stretch -
into a
deep purple
evening sky
(an unsky)
behold the moon
the shadows of small creatures will dance at your feet
and winds will brush against your skin
or howl with delight at their beauty and yours
lie down anywhere
and sink into a twilight slumber
perhaps you will dream
you are a gold-red needled tamarack
when you
wake up
remember your dream
also remember your poem
focus
on the gentle voices
of breezes and waters and rustling sticks
they will tell you secrets
about yourself
and
in the unseason
these soft articulations are
most honest
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