Frank counts winter’s approach by the number of leaf bags stacked at his curb. Seven. Mid-October. Twenty-six. Halloween. Nineteen. Early November. Fourteen. Thanksgiving. Years ago, he raked his own leaves. Now, he sneaks out at night and counts what’s left by the gardener his daughter insisted he hire.
As a trained journalist, Carolee Sherwood has learned to be concise, and her poetry comes from a
place of curiosity about people, specifically how they experience the world and
why they do what they do. Carolee's essays have appeared
in local publications and on local public radio. Her poetry has been published
most recently in Literary Mama,