Wind moans through the trees, clatters
deck furniture against railings,
pushes leaves into a corner,
whirls them up again.
In the wild, leaves fall, cushion the ground;
softness builds up, things are fed and covered.
It’s usually quiet, it’s often calm –
loud sounds are over soon, mayhem quickly
passes into peace.
It’s us, isn’t it, who drive
down the mountain
as fast as we can go?
About the Author: Alice Teeter’s most recent book Mountain Mother Poems was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. Previous books include Elephant Girls (2015 Adrich Press), and When It Happens To You… (2009 Star Cloud Press). Her poems have appeared in The Atlanta Review, Poetry Daily, The Tower Journal, Per Contra, and Kentucky Review. Her chapbook String Theory won the 2007 Georgia Poetry Society Charles B. Dickson prize. Teeter was awarded a Hambidge Fellowship in 2010. She was adjunct professor teaching poetry writing at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, from 2011 to 2016. She studied poetry with Peter Meinke at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida. She lives with her wife, Kathie deNobriga, in Pine Lake, Georgia.
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Image Credit: Charles Aubry “Leaf Arrangement” (1860–1869) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.