Michiana fog is thick gray, it sticks, mist
to the face, white-hot ghost rising out
of the earth to mix with frozen particles.
October is the patina of the months,
pinewood along the tractor roads,
out-of-focus rainbows over tarnished
fields every other day. Orange glow—
too much time on land. Leaving us all
behind, seems a common way to go…
Then rolling off the tongue in frost, coating
heirloom tomatoes, black with crevasses.
Even they are crying, let me go.
Scent of wet rotting fir, ground, and burnt
leaves is replaced with white water.
Gray fox grazing the family corn-field
in the shadows of moon, teeth marks along
Indian corn. After first frost hits, he always
takes the plow (less rusted) and circles stalks,
seeing his farm from a redbird’s eye. He coils
the growling plow, shapes magician’s wands
and Jack-o-lanterns for the neighbors. This year
I hope he paints me a crystal ball surrounded
by orchids, so when I get lost debating the in and out
door, orb-shaped patterns will guide me to the cards
where I flip over Four of Swords, finding
the moon way too bright, singing, these shining
ghosts are all for me, but I’m not jealous at all.