the smell of turkey laces through the house.
Her absence such a presence in November.
Perhaps it’s only something in the weather,
the shortened days, wind turning from the south,
sumac leaves, red as cardinals’ feathers—
Or is it past Thanksgivings I remember?
Both leaves and birds know when it’s time to go,
the fiery trees now burning down to embers.
If I mailed a card, it’d be returned to sender.
The pies sit on the counter, in a row.
Cranberries and oranges mingle in the blender.
I miss her more than ever in November.
[+]
Barbara Crooker's poems have appeared in magazines such as Green Mountains Review, Hollins Critic, Christian Science Monitor, Smartish Pace, Beloit Poetry Journal, Nimrod, Denver Quarterly, and Tampa Review.
.jpg)