Author’s Note: I’ve always thought that daylight in the month of October in North America has a special, glorious quality which can’t be quantified. October is also a time of intense back-to-school activities; it reminds me of my arithmetic and calculus classes. Thus, I used the term “asymptote,” borrowed from my coaches, to describe an imperfect attempt at getting at the essence of October light: not quite there but tending to decipher its enduring splendour.
Asymptote
October morning, the light seen
through the backhand of a silver moon—
anchoring us to the bottom of the night,
through which the hours pass,
like prime numbers through Eratosthenes’ sieve,
mindful of our doubles and ghosts alike,
—an algorithm
of lunacy and autumn winds
—stretched out on this day’s asymptote.
Let it be said of October that there is no boundary
at its last outpost of fickle warmth—
a time to enjoy when the end is near,
freed from the poison of numbers,
inside the veins of the last green leaves.
And here we are, left behind,
in the race to follow an unseen summer—
our hearts muted at dawn.
♦
Irina Moga lives and writes in East York, Ontario, Canada. Her latest book, a collection of poems, Variations sans palais, was published with Éditions L’Harmattan (2020). Her work has appeared in literary magazines including Canadian Literature, carte-blanche, PRISM International, Foreign Literary Journal, Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere. Website: www.irinamoga.com
Delmarva Review publishes evocative poetry, fiction, and nonfiction selected from thousands of new submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding new writing from the region, the nation, and beyond, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent. Financial support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org
P. Francis Mcnichol says
Nice imagery and simple words to go by: Nothing bad or complicated to say. Being a literalist with poetry, I enjoy longer rhyme schemes and shy away from haiku, nature, and too simple of a thought process in an art that is built of words if not so bloated. She hits the mark, and I can only impart a reading addict may wish for more.
And Fall is my favorite time of the year, also, except for the travails of November gails and wet suffocation, where bones wince within a cowering soul. Alas, October breezes eschew you in the imagination of youthful exploits and mischief. And let us not forget September, the salty air crispy, and with changing seasons awash in hopes, dreams, and aspiring skullduggery on the blacktop, in they yards, at the flag polls, and in the classes anew. Through the changes, growth of youth sprouts, as does anticipation of a brighter way and day, a headmaster our greatest fear. And the end of our exuberance and vigor, what has become of December? Where is she in this euphoric wave of undulating whim and wish and want? Where has she fled, come and gone, and in a hurry at the turnstile of winter’s wrath? Is she there, with glitter and spice, and smiles and mice, and fireplaces alit with warmth and glee? What has become of the scents, the trees, the tinsel and taffeta of stars and tykes and mangers? Presents come. And presents go. And yet it is autumn and a cool smile, with the winds of change that make me happy so. God bless you, October, and your winds that blow.