A bowl of November sun

You won’t find me even if you light up two thousand Catholic lights.

Don’t look for me in the ground.

Heaving with maggots big like marshmallows’ – that’s not I.

Lifting the fake velvet gown is not my coffin.

I won’t be under the stones covered by moss.

Neither am I carried by evening’s ashes.

FOREST tells my wooden tale in its wooden ribs.

Search me in a bowl of November sun.

Where dead leafs roast their saffron coats

And hunters forget what they were hunting.

Where fairy tale giants wipe their boots

And owls ruff their feathers for the evening bunting.

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay