PS Cottier

Last leaf

Does the tree despise
the last leaf
clinging to a twig
in brown nostalgia?

Is it the wind,
or thin fingers flicking
that drives it on,
and out, at last?

Eager ground calls it —
shepherds it down,
corralling nitrogen;
sequestering damp.

P.S. Cottier

A surprisingly non-speculative poem for one who spent all weekend at a science fiction convention. And a surprisingly autumnal one for the beautiful spring weather in which it was written.

I was on two panels at the Conflux convention: one on editing anthologies and one on poetry. I may write a longer post about it when the energy returns. As the tree said to the last leaf.

Soon I should be receiving the entries in the ACT Writers Centre Michael Thwaites Poetry Prize for my judging pleasure. Second competition I’ve judged in a month, and the third this year. I may write a longer post about it…you know when.

Click this feather for further excellent poetic mulch: