by Rebecca Titchner

After Halloween

Stone walls weave a gray ribbon across barren fields
A cornstalk here and there is all that remains from last month’s harvest
The open space stretches on for miles
Dotted with ancient farm houses and small towns just far enough off of 88 
to barely catch a glimpse of a church tower
November’s melancholy sun is soft 
Like the bunches of ornamental grass along the highway
The dying light of the dying year
A mournful time before winter comes
A season of loss
Shrunken pumpkins from Halloween,
With gaping mouths and empty eyes
Are glazed in white from last night’s frost.