Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 19 . . .


     poem and photo by Heather Kamins

Those plump, capped kernels that fell

from the branches overhead,

sinking like deep-seeded feelings

to hatch new trees,

were good for throwing

in holes, at piles of leaves,

at old gravestones in the mist of history

as snow threatened to descend.

The empty caps made good whistles,

shrieking, splitting the air if you shaped

your thumbs into a half-asked Y, pressed,

and blew hard, if you needed help

figuring out what to say

or how to understand. Even now,

the cognitive dissidence: I still don’t know

the right words to speak to what lands

on the unsuspecting grass, to bare witness,

to make that mute point,

that I’m scarred half to death,

that I’m internally grateful.


Heather Kamins writes fiction and poetry from her home in Western Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in 580 Split, Alehouse, the Rat's Ass Review, and 7x20. You can find her at


© 2010 Heather Kamins