The First Of November
The forest looks different today, darker.
I imagine it letting go of all of its terrible secrets,
in time to be cleansed by the winter cold.
I’m so shocked to see clouds of my breath
that at first I believe I’ve rounded up a tribe of ghosts.
The landscape is invisible by four thirty,
and we finally carve the pumpkin hollow,
gift him with a face and a candle.
The smell that escapes his hushed mouth
is intensely sweet. It permeates everything –
the skin between my fingers, the hair on the back
of my man’s neck, the pages of my notebook.
I spend hours separating the pumpkin’s pale seeds
from its vibrant guts, and we eat them roasted
with olive oil, cracked black pepper and salt.
The snow comes down, slowly, almost cautiously,
like feathers from a small bird stolen straight from the sky.