October, Spirits Poem by Taylor Graham

We cup our hands around the possibility
of fire. Frost has nipped our ankles, touched a hunger
at the dug-up root. Headless roses can’t explain

how they ever could have been an easy beauty.
Dried herbs beg to be incense, or a witch’s brew,
pulverized and potent, and finally let fly

on wind and wishes. The shriek you heard
last night was nothing but a shrew being changed
in the horned-owl’s grasp; and in the field,

one misshapen pumpkin put aside
waits for everything it might become; waits
for someone to carve its own true face.