Sketch in October
The tugboat is freckled with rust. What is it doing so far inland?
It's a heavy burnt-out lamp, tipped over in the cold.
But the trees still carry colors - wild signals to the other shore as if
someone wanted to be fetched home.
On the way back home, I see mushrooms pushing up through the grass.
Stretching for help, these white fingers
belong to someone who sobs down there in the darkness.
We belong to the earth.
