© Joanna Parypinski

October, October:
when twilight falls early
on leaf-scattered duffs
and trees’ spider-branches
creep over the dusk;

when pumpkins grow faces,
alit by the flame
of a thousand lost souls
and a low burning candle.
October, your name

is a beautiful corpse
that beckons from churchyards
where angels weep
in D minor: key of ghosts
and restless sleep.

October, your death-throes
burn life to the wick
and dissolve all the walls
between the dead
and the quick.

Though you’ll grow winter-old,
and your colors will fade,
October, I know
your departed shades
will come back next year

and even if I lie beneath the soil,
I will meet you then,
October, October.
All that dies will rise
again.