10-15-15
Thursday morning wind from the East
picked up leaves in jets of warmth
and chill.
They scraped and chattered on their
mission of completion.
The sun wore a halo of vapors
and of prisms,
the seconds and the starlings were moving
with the season.
Thursday morning wind, even before,
shook the dewy jewelry from the firs
raining anew the curtains of prisms
and of birds.
What are my words, amidst this wind,
and by extension, what am I?
a small, volatile person who will compost
amid the crackling heaps of
maple leaves and sodden moss?
These avenues with lines of trees
like lines of spines, titles, erect,
are paper all, and will lose their human gloss.
The names, perhaps, we will endeavor
not to forget.
To speak, and shout, and signal
are small and fading sounds
as wind draws in.
No comments:
Post a Comment