Questions of the Tenth Month

by Larry Strattner

Did I really think I was different

from stiff brown leaves

blown clattering down the road?


Did I really think I was not the same

as ancestors of my ancestors;

boy, girl, wolf;  boy, girl, wolf; seated around the fire,

eyes alight with dreams of  forests? 


Did I think I was longer than memory,

taller than my shadow?


Have I not bled from birth; solely into Earth?

How did this escape me; 

my loosening grip on time? 


These tenth-month questions

I ask the Sun. 

Again, at night, the Moon.


Lost, naked, tremulous,

I assume obsequious postures,

terminally disingenuous.