Fleeting leaves of haunting trees
Ghosts of August gone
Fall to despair upon its knees
To whisper winter’s song.

Your soul trampled beneath my shoes
Your heart bare of breast
For your last dirge winter blows
And at last falls out your nest.

Dead to me the bird that’s flown
To finer trees in finer places
It cracks my mind to have ever known
The other spring that your heart chases.

Farewell my bird, I wish you well
Although your song still haunts me
As the sun rises like a ringing bell
The empty tree it taunts me.


Josh Poole is a 25-year old writer in the heart of Appalachia. He writes about the working class, nature, and absurdism. His poem, Lazarus, was accepted earlier this year.

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