by Martin Walls
(American Life In Poetry: Column 024)
Whine as though a pine tree is bowing a broken violin,
As though a bandsaw cleaves a thousand thin sheets of
They chime like freight wheels on a Norfolk Southern
slowing into town.
But all you ever see is the silence.
Husks, glued to the underside of maple leaves.
(the rest of the poem is here)
Happy End of Summer! Let the cool weather begin!