V. Belle
Spelling the Month of Halloween
The O in October is white and round
like the moon in the Halloween sky.
The C in October is the curl of a cloud
when the broom of a witch sweeps by.
The T in October is as tall as the trees
that twist in the leaf-tossing wind.
The small little O in the middle of the month
is the werewolf's howling din
when the big bat B of October flies
'round the bones of the skeleton limbs
and the candlelit show of the pumpkin's glow
with their flickering frightening grins.
The E that squiggles near the end of the word
is the way a cat's tail greets the night.
The R of October brings to an end
the month that makes Halloween bright.
Nancy Simmonds
AC
That One Word
Because of the windy rain
brown leaves are slapped to the sidewalk,
sticker stuck.
Red leaves shimmy and shine
on some trees.
The orange maple litters the green grass
with bright fruit.
Brilliant. Beautiful.
Unlike
the rinsed coffee mug
drying alone in the sink.
Empty hangers.
The smooth gray bottoms of vacant dresser drawers.
The worn keys left on the kitchen counter
behind the locked front door.
One leaf is improbably pink.
One it I write in permanent marker
one word.
The one that describes
exactly how I feel.
Nancy Simmonds
When Comes the Autumn
One day when trees have dressed their leaves
in colors bright and bold
and crows in robber's black will thieve
the corn in actions bold
we'll turn our thoughts to wintertime,
to cozy firesides,
to quilts and sweaters, New Year's chimes,
and early eventides.
And we'll imagine winter's white
on fallow field and tree,
the cold clear thrill of starlight
and moonlight's melody,
when we will join our mittened hands
stand breathless, chilled and still,
and jump upon our new red sleds
and slide the farmer's hill.
Nancy Simmonds
AC
Riding Out The Storm
soft raindrops fall
from amethyst clouds
misty and sweet
they slowly build
harder and faster
until a sheet of water
cascades and floods
like a waterfall
or a solid screen
shielding everything
except the birds
who hide under amber leaves
riding out the storm
V. Belle
ACG
Applesauce
By the front door
of the quilt and antique shop
sits a bushel basket of apples.
A handmade sign says:
Take one.
They are free.
They are not particularly perfect on the outside.
Spots in their shine.
Lumps in their shape.
They don't look like any seen in a grocer's store.
They look Real.
Like the old woman beyond the counter.
Fly away hair.
Faded lips.
Age spots on her hands.
She sits in a small pool of light
stitching fabric pieces
into something
that could be beautiful.
Nancy Simmonds
