by John Poole

I awake this morning, frozen fall frosting grass,
Grey haze drops its curtain over the world,
the birds wing south, brown furrows capture puddles, 
yellow leaves pave forest trails, earth’s
blustery call is silenced by the moon, shining its white
face over the quiet earth, each day blown by the wind,
trailing smoke from the pyres of my own mistakes,
brilliant burning regret rises from orange flames,

Ethereal tendrils whisper to heaven,
the smell only God loves reminds Him of Adam
or Moses, or Abraham, men who paid obeisance with sacrifice,
a ritual to God who protected them from themselves,
giving to each man his reward, a perfect parent, 
until all gifts were given, 
nights without sleep, pondering pleading prayers,
the earth’s silence, pondering its former glory.

John Poole has been a teacher in the public school system for eighteen years. He is also a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Since 2014, he has been a faculty member at BYU-Idaho, where he teaches freshman composition, literature, and English education courses.