There's something in the woods
the same thing that hides
in the closet
under the bed
in shadows behind old houses
among weeds and empty bottles
in abandoned city lots
The thing that will not tell
its name
hides on the edge of the mind
just behind the memory
of late October
on the smell of burning leaves
ashes in cold fireplaces
dead yellow flowers
just before summer
begins its reign of terror
It feeds on forgetfulness
and grows
by what falls
from the turning grindstone of time