Pumpkin Spice, Corn Demons, and the Springtime of Death
Setting aside the seasonal latte and embracing death for the Autumnal Equinox
The carcass of an old blown down honey locust awaits the saw where it has lain, propped against a neighboring pin oak which it has known for thirty or forty years, its crown partly pressed into the claypan of this slope; somewhere between the heaven it once caressed with its thorned stems and fine, compound leaves and the underworld of our stove in whic…