Katherine Hastings

Cover photo by the author

20 pages, hand-sewn

Sebastopol, 2005



October 30


Leaves fall like rain, turn

the black earth gold.

Dead, we say, but the wind

in her many wooden shoes

keeps up the crackling dance.



The wind slants from the west,

breasts its way through broken

fences and windowpanes,

billows life into needles

and abandoned webs,

a prayer within their stitching.



Over the mountain the moon

wears black lace, throws it off

only to disappear.  On my skin

your silver hands paint rivers

of colliding stars.



 Early Morning Crow


From the light pole golden hills,

jagged rip of shifting ground,

cloudless streams, earthbreath

palpitating discarded leaves,

four black-tailed deer


chewing, slowly, 

rose blossoms, blooms

of agapanthus. 

Plumes rise ghost-like

from chimney pipes,


lick cerulean sky —

delicious space flesh. 

No prayer from love or loss,

(he’s just a crow)

only stillness,


that final sequin of star

each dawn

he opens his mouth to,

he calls to,

lifting heavenward.





The fog lying in over the mountains

is black.  Is lined with ice.  Is its own

mountain of snow.


Ten p.m.  One planet to the southwest

shimmers copper and rose.  The mockingbird

is silent as the night


lights up like day and the moon asks

who is braver. 


We are small and so is every quandary. 

By the time we walk indoors we are at peace

again.  Not much else matters.


That and knowing the end will not be so bad,

that there is no difference, really, between

one shroud and the next,


be it mist, or veil or shadow.  When we are tangled

in moon and meadow, a season of drowning

in light.  Violet.  Green.  Silver.