The Unseason

by Indira Sinton


retreat now

to a tangled scattered place


autumn is over

winter is not yet


it is the unseason

 and most are afraid to journey


when you arrive

you’ll be alone


all the tourists will be gone


breathe in

crisp northern air


listen to crackling leaves

 as they crumble blithely  

to a new existence


tear off some clothes and celebrate


be a naked deciduous branch


absorb the cold


write a poem


thick dry wild plants

restless and intelligent

not doped

by sunshine

not sleeping yet

under snow that will come



and stretch -

into a

deep purple

evening sky

(an unsky)


behold the moon


the shadows of small creatures will dance at your feet

and winds will brush against your skin

or howl with delight at their beauty and yours


lie down anywhere

and sink into a twilight slumber


perhaps you will dream

you are a gold-red needled tamarack


when you

wake up

remember your dream


also remember your poem



on the gentle voices

of breezes and waters and rustling sticks


they will tell you secrets

about yourself


in the unseason

these soft articulations are

most honest



Copyright ©1998 Indira Sinton


Originally Published in Georgian Bay Today