Holes

My neighbor
drags cancer
up his
cement steps.
 
His son,
from Texas,
pulls a white
rental car
into the driveway.
 
Crickets,
minus some
who’ve died
since I started
this poem,
are needles
of grief
stitching
numerous holes
across the souls
of the living.

November Leaves

The trees are a thick
ochre wash.
 
Chamber violins
& trumpets
announce
Baroque leaves
that swarm
the wet ground
this overcast afternoon.
 
From time to time
red oak blood
scatters
a small herd 
of yellow leaves.
 
A new violin,
sadder than its chamber sisters,
outlines
the gradual descent
of one crisp, brown
leaf.