Leaves like grief
skulk through shadows.
Slubs of them swell
and stew, ground
to dust by dust,
death’s currency.
I watch him
—my hangdog neighbor—
coax them into piles.
He wields his
nightmarish rake,
eventually setting
the dead leaves alight.
Burning for a cold
moment, they whisper
and cackle as they did
when the wind
blew through
the boughs
they’ve now abandoned.
Truth is:
I have no neighbors
and I live a long ways
from everywhere.
—from Ekphrastic Challenge
December 2021, Editor’s Choice
__________
Comment from the editor, Timothy Green: “In contrast to its surreality, the most striking feature of Bruce’s drawing are, to me, the eyes. I’m convinced this poem has told their story.”