In October

 

The sun drips yolk over Moravian lavender fields.

Turmeric houses sigh into themselves.

Inside is the last tomato, rye, sage, the swirl

of burning. Charcoal sunflowers rattle their ash,

bend their burnt heads to mourn the melt.

The sky twists into a knot, then spreads

dark over the surface of a plum, not quite ripe.


 

Kendall Pakula is a poet and copy writer living in Atlanta, Georgia. A graduate of Coastal Carolina University, Pakula has recently been published in Blue Lyra Review.

 

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