Poetry

A Poem for O-C-T-O-B-E-R



Owls sleep in the ancient oaks of my back yard,

Clearly they prefer the top of the tree , the oldest branches .

Their deep yawning hoots I do not hear; but my imagination’s ear,

Often thinks their voices must be like the warning whistles

Bleating from four blocks away, from the soot covered

Engines of the L&N freight cars chugging through the

Remnants of my childhood dreams…



anna alexander

October 5, 2006©

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