first frost

by John T. Howard

On the radio Among the stars some 

one said to think of this earth we call

home: a planet bound by fire & fury.

My planet is small these days: dank

steps down to a basement apartment

with mornings in & mornings out

before sunrise. The old dog ash-eyed

& blind sleeps alone, moves on hinges 

tender, limping. So that I now wonder 

which death I will have to summon

strength for soonest: that of the dog

or for the loss of one of my parents.

My father ages & refuses to speak

on the subject of death. My mother

without her teeth in seems skeletal.

The sky cold & clear & full of small

stabbings. Blanket of night punctured

by a full moon as close to the earth

as the earth will allow. The shrubs

glisten with a frosted-over white caul

of frozen dew. It is now mid-October.

In a few weeks November. Someone

will win an election. Others will not.

The dog may be dead. A parent too.

This body falls farther into age along

side a daughter whose smallness now

grows larger. With this worries surge.

Winter will come & go. Then come

& go again & again & again & again.

A first frost is not a first. It never is.

John T. Howard is a Colombian American writer, translator, and educator. He has served as Writer-in-Residence at Wellspring House Retreat and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Indiana University. His poetry can be found at Salamander, Notre Dame Review, PANK Magazine, The South Carolina Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, and elsewhere; he was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize for poetry found in Posit. His creative nonfiction is published with The Cincinnati Review. He resides in the greater Boston area with his daughter and teaches writing at Tufts University.