October

I lust for bark, unblemished scents 
of scarlet Maple permanence;
and so I wander, vined and proud,
with fear yet hid in shallow loud,
attempting to emancipate 
what none will ever regulate
and few yet barely understand—
the simple sweep of nature’s hand;
the apple sweet from humble hark; 
the anchored voice past present dark
who says, Be drained to taste the fill. 
And so I tell my sundried soul,
          Be still.




-Spencer Barnhill 

Spencer Barnhill is a poet and student from Oklahoma City. His work has appeared in Ekstasis, SLAB Literary, Vita Poetica, Outrageous Fortune, and Moonstone Arts. He focuses on metaphor, nature, and contemplative observation.