Kenneth O'Keefe

THE GHOSTS OF NOVEMBER Wailing, chilled winds assailed my tortured yard. The leaves spun up from blasted grass like clouds Of crumbling colors, with each swirling shard Of withered leaf absorbed in whirling shrouds. With sudden force the leaves turned to the ghosts Of budding joys I slew that waning year. They spiraled into images like hosts Of demons making acts of mine too clear. Appearing first was Kristin's plaintive face, Thinking how I ignored her finest grade. My son…