Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Beneath the Sugar Maple, Late October

by Judith Sornberger

As each crimson leaf
becomes one corpuscle
of a dervish’s
+++++ brief body
twirling in the blue
+ breeze of morning,
I remember what lives
in me besides your death,
that the turbulence
of loss sometimes
subsides—or even blazes—
into an ecstasy
+++++ of turning.