Black
Oak
by
Leo Yankevich
At
midnight, just
beneath the sunken
moon,
there is a glade,
where leaf on
fallen leaf
lie underneath
her long and bony
arms.
There, naked,
she awaits her
time to come.
But, singing in
her way a mournful
tune
of many years
gone by, of death
and grief,
of olden incantations,
herbs, and charms,
she never moves
on, only gestures
some
to frightened
voles and sage
and sleepless
owls.
You crouch and
watch amid ferns,
ill at ease
at what you see:
a crow's eye of
a ditch;
and what you hear:
her consonants
and vowels
caught and carried
far off by the
breeze.
And for a moment
you think: she's
a witch.
©
2007 by Leo Yankevich
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About the Author
Leo
Yankevich
lives with his
wife and three
sons in Gliwice,
Poland. His poems
have appeared
in scores of literary
journals of both
sides of the Atlantic,
most recently
in Blue Unicorn,
Chronicles, Envoi,
Iambs & Trochees,
Staple, and Windsor
Review. Visit
him online at:
leoyankevich.com |
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