Poetry

Equinox, Inspired by Eugene Cash

by

Gerry Sarnat

Summer done, fall's first rain,
I oil the doors that squeak again.

My creaking joints ache like burning coals,
as the coiled cobra queen swallows me whole.

With my white bush clover and your soft white lilly,
must our bodies drift apart?

Why does an old oak tree grow on a cold rock in winter;
is there no spring warmth anywhere?