October tiptoed over too gently, bringing the fall
while kissing his apples to red, singeing leaves
into scarlet and rust while in yellow she rose
him from sleep with fog in her fingers poking him right
from his bed into acid of rain; she’s turned him a pile
of cotton and wool as she danced him into the gale.
October came with widdershin winds, as a gale
slivering sprigs, wrecking the branches to fall
into rubble; in her wake the streets are piled
up with trash (as pages torn from his books) and leaves
tumbling and sticking to dampness of stones, but right
when she came, heaven cleared as the shy moon rose.
October was lofty light skies and the rose
clinging at the edge of its living: it was a gale
of lightheaded laughter from a gaggle of girls right
outside the librarian’s window and now when it’s fall
he turned apple cheeked, as smiling he leaves
the cobwebs and dust to pages he’s piled.
October is that lady (too loud) with her hair in a pile
of seaweed. wearing a corduroy smock and rose-
colored glasses collecting in maple leaves
shades from the summer just passed with a gale
and a sigh. She’s the end and beginning, the fall
from a blessing, the curse of ever been right.
October is driving a bike and sharply turn right
at the edge of a cliff, hoping (in vain) not ending up piled
up as rubbish left after the apple tree’s windfall;
She’s Ophelia’s corpse in stagnant water, the rose
left at his doorstep from a leftover lover. She’s a gale
of woodwind and drums, a presence that leaves.
October is the book he was reading, turning the leaves,
but forgetting each word — the ultimate fright
of losing his sense, the whirlwind of gales
in his bloodstream a book burning craze, his wreck-pile
of thoughts, the falsehood of demons who rose
while claiming his thinking; both birth and his downfall.
October is leaves on his grave, a book-pile he left
(never read), his birthright to rise, the rose on his desk
the gale, arriving at nightfall, with boots on her feet.
Today Victoris introduces us to one of the most complicated forms we will write at dVerse MTB. But we do have a month to write our poems. Please join this challenge and the fun.
This sestina is reworked from an earlier version I wrote a year ago.
August 15, 2019