awake into early chill, season of frost
and the pumpkins are all in, yards bedecked
for holiday of unholy . . . never
one to participate, our family hunches
behind cinderblock walls, hoards its candy
and hides from the general hostility
society seems to bear. this benign
distrust seems born in the genes, showing true
as well in all mother’s sisters, one who
now geriatrates in the recliner,
quietly persevering as death crawls in
on foggy feline paws. winter coming
to the year; winter snowbound in her life,
and mother watching for her own winter’s end.

dmpitchford