Rafe Guttman

Frigid fog pierced by tulip poplar tops, Smothered sun smoldering under the veil. Frost is a curtain Mother Nature drops, On a stage that has grown stagnant and stale.

Brimley is not content to sit in a lap, And refuses to be domesticated. I have yet to witness a snare, snag or trap, From which she cannot be self-extricated.

Crudely cobbled leaves pave the hilltop's path. Weave a road wider than a grass scythe's swath, More like the wingspan an albatross hath. Maple, hickory, oak, poplar, and beech Stood divided, but fall united, each.

On decaying firewood and in fertile loam, Radishes and carrots establishing a home. Squaring the circle, a rectangular dome, Meek mockery of the Pantheon in Rome, New and old, living and dead, make a biome.

Look, the creek meanders and pools, Lodged between a sandbar and bank, Leaves slink and sink in water dank, Lost to one of earth's vestibules, Like where the fair Ophelia sank.

Band of buzzards, halo of flies, Turkey vultures kettling the skies. Softly swooping with muted cries, Eying and nosing all that dies. Holding a hasty wake where it lies.

From my uncle's, a russeted pear. Thick-skinned with imperfections, but sweet, A fallen reminder at your feet, Of someone gone from here, yet still there.

Patchy memories and wrinkled lines of guilt, Some Sundays can hang over like an old quilt. Comforted by butterflies, Brimley can bask. What happened to you last night? Don't even ask.

A most gruesome scene for Halloween. This poor buff's feathers plucked from her tail, Either a fox or hawk did assail. Escaped by the skin of her hen's teeth. Death may come from above or beneath, Chicken life is a balance in between.

Behind this wooden door, Where winter hay I store, Hens are doing their chore Of laying eggs once more In a convenient drawer. This evening's total score Is one dummy plus four.

Time to put the side garden to sleep, With discarded leaves I rake and sweep. Like sewing scraps to create a quilt, Blanketing a bed of clay and silt.

Have you hugged your sugar maple trees? Now, their boughs burdened with rich gold leaf, After providing shade and relief. Its rich sap will rush when the nights freeze. All this bounty without charging fees!

My second fig was riper than the first, With a honey-like flavor it did burst. It's rewarding to relish a sweet crop, Since most of my strawberries were a flop, And raspberries have come to a stop, While frost bitten peaches fared the worst.

A volunteer grows above the rabble. The soil is dust and the mulch is gravel. With these conditions, it did not cavil. It solemnly stands while others babble, "Before it ever blooms, it will have died." A fruitless pursuit, but at least it tried.

The fog is a dying cloud. Falling from a station proud, To grassless dirt deeply plowed, With its own burial shroud.

Not just one, but two great pumpkins paired. I told Brimley to get in the shot, So you could see the mass they have got. But my directions were all for naught, As she was less curious than scared.

Not a Lovecraftian horror show, This Cthulhu-rooted strawberry Has been properly propagated. Its cord, severed and desiccated. For new life, the roots I rebury In a fresh vessel with space to grow.

Shy flowers dance in day's dappled light. Wavy-leaved aster with a stubby stem, A mangled limb that was grappled tight. Unhealed wound where they were not treated right. Yet, their beauty blushes bold. Be like them.

Persimmon, portent in the fall, A comestible crystal ball. If the seeds, when split, sport a spoon, You will be shoveling slush soon. A knife cuts cold, but less snowfall. Mild temps warm the tines of a fork. Not sure what to make of this spork.

Purple top turnips are almost frost-proof. Nippy nights render the roots soft and sweet. Gregarious greens wilt in the heat. Like some odd people, the colder you treat Them. The kinder they grow and less aloof.