December 7, 2023
At Your Grave /seven months after/
Here at the end of summer
the cosmos have fallen,
eight feet of proverbial beanstalk,
and above, no clouds, just sky.
sundials of magenta and off-white
takeoff in spirals, wind catchers,
rest against the warped bench
I never sealed, sheltering thin
stalagmites of wood dust
of those calling it home.
There is no carpenter like the bee.
I come to refill the hole where
the chipmunk burrowed again
Beneath your stone promenade,
listing the whole year in its subduction,
and I come late to listen to the cottonwood
leaves race like cars across the dust,
she earth taking notes in volumes—
Settling, unsettled, resettling.
Settled, unsettling, resettled.
SAM CALHOUN is a writer and photographer living in Elkmont, AL. The author of the chapbook “Follow This Creek” (Foothills Publishing), and a collaborative work “The Hemlock Poems” (Present Tense Media). His poems have appeared in Pregnant Moon Review, Westward Quarterly, Eratos, Boats Against the Current, and other journals. Follow him on Instagram @weatherman_sam, or his website, www.weathermansam.com