Late autumn, southern Iowa

What green is left

lies muted beneath a veil of frost.

Its voice, caught in the throat of autumn,

is silent.

The wild parsnip and chicory are gone.

The linden and cottonwood loose their hair,

sending mounds of russet strands to the ground.

But what of this fodder?

What of these silos of dry bones and song?

In a season soon to sleep,

how now shall we live?

In a season soon to sleep,

who will speak the truth of green?

For white is not absence;

its presence is a crushing thing

that runs its mouth with colder claims.

So who will speak the truth of green,

its blooms and dreams,

its primrose promise of return?

Shannon Vesely