Excerpt From A Series

I Heard An Orchard Bell Call The Ploughman Home

What lights the windows with a light 
so much like twilight?
The red dove takes the dying leaves
to the place where nothing returns.
October is burning the briars of August--
see how the trees part for the form,
the scythe.

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I wrote this poem several years ago as part of an MFA graduate course study on the works of Wallace Stevens.
Photographer evil robot six