Amanda Hempel


Stray leaves slap windshields, sudden as memory,

now that the trees have given themselves over to winter

arthritic black fingers scratching at the sky.

When the owls come for the scuffling rodents,

they will dive from these branches and return

as everything that falls from branches does.


We had a little saucepan I loved,

blue, speckled white like an egg,

the kind everyone’s grandmother had,

and it disappeared the way

grandmothers do.

Maybe one day I will find it

and hold it, turn it over

looking for some epiphany

like waiting for water to boil.

Extraordinary Thing

The rush of air and feathers

as a crow moves from housetop to trees

as if through the rooms of his own house.

Amanda Hempel © 2011