All Saints’ Day by Connie Wanek

It happens that the world has run out of patience.
Sleet coats a smashed pumpkin,
and the wraith hanging in an immature maple

must be lowered, washed and dried, and spread
again across the child’s bed.
A north wind strips the popple of its costume, and flagellates

its bare limbs.  The hills wear coarse gray, for penance,
before they’re cowled in white.
And all the candy energy abroad last night,

the candle flame that lit up a malicious grin,
the brass of car horns,
the pillowcases bulging with extorted chocolates—

all is surrendered.  The soul is a cold cell in November,
with one supernal window
admitting a wan light accessible only to those

who have given up the ghost.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/175/2#!/20604771

Date: 1999

By: Connie Wanek (1952- )