I-S-A ; ini sejarah aku

November

Almost empty
almost empty, the trees
almost dead to the wounds of cold
sticks and stones in the bony sky
brown leaves immune

Their little death
their little death
resonating woodpecker flown south
  with all his fine colors,
  chewing creatures and spinners
  bustled away beneath the calling geese
skeleton clouds in the cellblock sky
close in from the north

Who cares
who cares
none of it will hurt in the dryness
they’ll sleep all through the dreary months
of the sundial’s dumbness
and never dream
Persephone’s black insomnia
nor keen her separation