Here is a poem for the changing season. It is different from much of what I write, and is one of the few free-verse poems I’ve published.
by A. A. Rubin
and the snow falls like tiny ghosts,
translucent ‘neath the pale moonlight—
crumbs falling from the Reaper’s hand
as he squeezes the life out of harvested souls
as the wind whips them around,
seeking for partners
with whom to form bodies,
but they end up mismatched and incomplete,
portmanteau stitched together—
—mere shells. Empty and ephemeral—
rising in gothic gusts in the midnight chill.
you hear them howling in the storm.
you tell yourself it’s the wind, but—
deep down, you know it’s not.
you pull your blanket over your head and hug your children tight.
as the soul flakes flutter down,
frantically searching for living beings to haunt—
—not out of a need to complete unfinished business,
but out of a desperate desire to avoid the nothing that lies beyond—
This poem originally appeared in Bards Annual 2018 (Local Gems Press)