Op/Ed
Poetry: After Thanksgiving
Not enough mud to say
it’s mud season yet.
That’s in March, April
and May. Just enough
for the deer to leave
a good impression.
On the dirt road.
Among the spent
shells. And someone
else’s glistening
boot tracks.
The turkeys slip here,
too, losing
their trail
of feathers.
The wind’s likely
to make a headdress
of. To catch
on a crown
of antlers.
There’s still
a skin of ice,
we have to
think twice
about. And not
enough gravel
to make us feel sure
of ourselves.
Until July.
Our spring.
Our summer.
Fall slipping
toward winter.
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall
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