Poetry? He said.
It’s just lists.
Like kids leave Santa a list.
He has a point.
The apples
Humans say are rotting
On the south lawn,
But I left deliberately
And the thrushes and fieldfares
Treat as a drive thru
All winter,
The blackbird’s cantata,
The robins’ chorus,
The sparse blows of snow,
The frost painted onto every leaf,
The dark coming of Christmas,
The light of short days.
I thought of these as poem.
But, looking now,
Really, they’re just a list
I’m leaving, in hope.
