Garden in October

by Jeanne Shannon

Leaves of the honey locust
floating down,
a cold, gold rain.

But still
two green leaves
on the Tree of Heaven.

Lines

by Maria DePaul

Foraging at dusk
Coyotes howling
Last call of Autumn

Erotic Slugs

by Eric Fisher Stone

Globs of butter, wet goblins, they rub
mouths lubed on blue lichen,
bellies grinding slow rivers
over humid mud, glugging air,
slugs measured in slimy lust
for dew, hedonist pleasure-monks,
paths slick with carnal lard, joy swelled
in oily organs, jellying hearts
gorged on Earth’s heaping gift.

Bushland

by Judith Steele

Trunks of Eucalypts lean towards one another,
whisper with leathery leaves
Young Casuarinas draw black needles
on pale blue sky.
Sturt Peas flame in the dust
Pig Cactus creeps in hollows
Dam water is brown, ducks are brown
between blue-green bushes
and blue-green scent of bushland.

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

i.
sandhill cranes too high to see

ii.
willow branch after the sparrow

iii.
horned owl swooping as low as he has to

Upon a Pile of Bear Dung

by Pepper Trail

Chestnut-brown dough of digestion
Polished husks of acorn, torn flesh of apple
Autumn’s abundance tumbled in that barrel of body
The dross left with nonchalance upon the path
All goodness taken in, made a robe of fat against the cold
But not yet ready for sleep, the October bear
Wanders the brambles, finds what she likes everywhere
Ambles to the high point of the year
Grunts, scratches, shits, and eats some more

The Day Before

by Summer Koester

A devil's club graveyard all that remains,
bones of a mighty clubbed fortress
reduced to small brown skeletons,
silent, still scaffolds of what once was.
This is how you say madrugada in English–
the coldest, darkest, undead hour
when spirits roam the earth, right before
the first snow:
the rainforest so dry and quiet
bones and shapes, negative space,
the air sucked right out.

Swan Song

by Wesley D. Sims

A sparse chorus of crickets
telegraphs the news--autumn
arrives on the overnight train.
Forty-degree West wind
plucks brown leaves
from walnut and poplar.
Twilight sifts over the landscape,
dark clouds press a pale orange sky
into the horizon.

I Remember Aleppo

by Terrence Sykes

ancient silk road heirloom
grew upon the left bank
determined Queiq river
steeped landscape
rising field of peppers
powdered ochres
colors changing
seasons ceased
blossoming at dusk

Since the storm

by Mathieu Debic

since the storm, new birds
find a home in the strewn leaves.
from the brush, new songs.
shafts of sun penetrate, now,
and mockingbirds dip and swerve.
broken branches dry in the sun.

awakening

by Kat Terban

the slowly creaking dawn
sheds light on an unfurling
green pothos leaf, on the minute
veins where precious sap flows.

crisp sparkling dew
condenses, coalesces,
is drunk by a careful
angulate orbweaver spider;
it breaks open the water’s skin
and sucks the liquid in
while myriad eyes
remain alert for prey.

perched upon that new leaf
tapping its leg-tips, the spider
leaps out toward the sun,
spinner releasing a line
to rappel down, and start
a fresh day’s web.

Lines

by William Cullen, Jr.

norway maple
where a few leaves just were
the north star

The uppermost leaves

by Nandini Maharaj

The branches of the elm tree lean to one side
fanning out with the sun’s rays,
the uppermost leaves, emblazoned in gold.
The leaves below are tightly clustered
giving the appearance of stillness.
When all at once the wind blows and the leaves disperse,
revealing new patches of blue sky.
Then the leaves close in once again,
and all seems still but the uppermost leaves
glistening in the morning light.

Hardwoods

by Mathieu Debic

Groans in the hardwoods.
Wind stretches timbers, abates;
a blaze, a red shower.

La Fin Sauvage

by John Zedolik                                                         

Wild is the roof
atop which reach
the unwanted spindly
stalks and irregular leaves

to an evening deepening
to night that will obliterate
their serrated silhouettes
and grant safety from discerning

eyes that might influence
a call for taming, a cutting
for the cutters upon the seam
of sky and constructed earth,

bold and instinctive on their edge,
left better to occasional sighting
by unconcerned souls who deem
the ridge, the ragged row welcome

wilderness needed among the docile
and down-combed brick-blocks
that certainly would frown up
if they could at the fringe that their

absolute politesse impedes
with wisps and licks that refuse
to lie flat and servile
as the lawns below.

Lines

by Judith Ann Muse Robinson

Planned community.
Ears up. Eyes wide. Whitetail deer.
C.V.S. ahead.

on a corner

by James Bell

a prosperous looking blackbird tries
to precision crack the shell
of a snail
on a corner of the Corlay Road -

interrupted
lifts it in its beak
and flies away from morning sun

Lines

by Hemapriya Chellappan

bamboo grove
the soft whistle
of a spice finch