Bascom Hill
by Jacob Riyeff

A fumbling rush of a smile pours out of me:
it’s autumn atop our tired moraine.

Lagging, a poor creature with a salutary grin,
beams of sunshine breaking cold through smooth

November skies. Slanted wind blowing
voices; squirrels approaching over dying grass.

I watch the cars and pavement to the south,
gold leaves on grey sky, and pray

to be a fool, to have the weakness and frailty
needed to be poor and gentle, that I may

smile a true smile, meeting eyes
that pass me with awe.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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