By Melissa Boston
Thirteen acres of red oak woods,
and its leaves are starting to turn
onto their fattened-veined bellies,
rattling out their smooth colors
to bristle garnet, and breaking
slowly from their stipules.
I wait to see them move in two
straight rows inside the cedar-
smoke wind, like the procession
moves down Colbern’s southern edge,
away from the freshly interred plot,
by a stone yet to be set with a name.
Melissa Boston is currently in her second year of the MFA program at the University of Arkansas. Her poetry is forthcoming in PMS, The Fourth River, and Moon City Review.