Bare autumn trees, sky glows red at dusk,
misty with pollen and leaves’ fragrant dust.
All around, brown ground, as on rusted
pipes and nails. Too soon, a brittle crust
of ice on leaf mat, rime sparkles, arrests
my steps. In fleece and wool, not overdressed
for this first chill. I break the surface, mess
the pristine window into earth, look west
for the day’s last light where land crests
and dips in darkening woods. Bereft
of something I can’t name. My feet are set
for home again. On sorrow’s lonesome drift,
I write my way toward shore. My pen’s a skiff.
From fore to aft, I’m captain of my craft.
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has been a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Mezzo Cammin, and The Nation. She ran away from the hurricanes of South Florida to be surprised by the earthquakes and tornadoes of rural central Virginia, where she writes poetry and does fabric and paper art. www.joanmazza.com
“By reading and writing poetry, I come to terms with my obsessions.”