This is Autumn
The deep warmth of the leaves
As they trickle humbly
From the majestic trees
Red: the flesh torn
From the intricate skeleton
Orange: the flame
Feeding on the tender breeze
Yellow: the cunning grin
Of the mangled branches
Underfoot; from beneath
They cry and they cackle
As they ridicule me
Their calls tickle my ears
Loud, at first
Then soft and pressured
A distant chorus;
A crisp whisper
Like cold silk against skin
The brisk air caresses.
The wind is of smoke and
Of the promise of life
It is stale on my tongue
The assurance of death
So clear, so proud; the sky
Looming above in fresh
Attentive blue
So distant, so attentive;
The chill
Rushing in hushed voices
All to end so as to start again
This is Autumn
