The First Sunday Morning in November

The First Sunday Morning in November

Purple leaves paste the ground like papier-mâché.

Gravity pulls the browning grass back to earth

with stillness so powerful nothing moves.

Even the trees hide death in plain sight. Tiny stems

hang tethered in time. The West Wind subsides

in the tilt of a burning leaf.

What do the children know about November,

the harvest moon, the silent stars, the birth and death

of a landscape holding its breath yellow?

I let them rise to their own conclusions

about a sky that hints light for one day,

how to sleep at night shine without the sun.

Valerie Smith

Valerie A. Smith is a PhD candidate in Poetry at Georgia State University and a graduate of the MA in Professional Writing at Kennesaw State University. Her work appears in Wayne Literary Review, Solstice, South 85, Call + Response, and The Auburn Avenue.