a phone number poem
used to be
a big black barking dog
confined to the kitchen.
If bad news approached, it woofed.
Good days, friendly jangle of
On some November afternoons
a smell of snow sharpens the air.
Bare trees hold up a pewter-colored sky, each
branch remembering the blaze it’s relinquished.
A stillness as the next thing approaches. Shadow of wing.
Crow, flapping and strutting, haw-haw-hawing. But now the bird
has folded its bravado away. Become a dark silhouette
settled on a low branch.
Autumn dreaming into its cells. Flicker of hunger.
Dusk settles in. Golden glow of a window.
—Ginny Lowe Connors, West Hartford, CT