Musings on a Late Fall Day
My yellow pansed dreams float around
Russet leaves, the winds rustling like
Rough drafts of paper, on the verge
Of making a deep, sacred promise.
The kaleidoscope of colors, orange,
Brown, ripe yellow etched on
An everyday canvas, a short-lived love story.
Grope in the winds for lines, words composed
Soon to be lost, dumbstruck, crumpled by
Snowy avalanches.
The ripened leaves
Cling to each other like sisters in pain,
Dangling wistfully, clinging hard
To the branches as the winds trumpet in.
One by one, singing of beauty, abundance
And terror, asserting their cycle on
The fall's melting palette.
The leaves wither, collapse in floating folds
In the dried, diminishing bed of grasses.
My eyes take in their dance and their pain,
The body of my dreams following them,
Listless, shaking, kissing the leaves
Grounded in their inevitable ending.
The orchestra of the winds grows wild,
Searing, in their primitive fury.
I inhale the emptied horizon,
The thrusting rush of air,
Devour the fire and calm of the trees,
Now bare boned, resting, echoing infinity
In their prolonged nakedness.
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