Tuesday, October 5, 2010


A happy poem can only come in Autumn
When death is in the air
And all of nature knows it.
That sweet and furious death
That winds its way through stable trees
Who may have thought them stable
And picks off summer's pleasures with her teeth.

A happy poem
Can only come in Autumn
When her cool air stings our noses
And we tend to forget to bring a sweater.

A happy poem
Is what I write in Autumn
For Autumn knows exactly how to kill
Whatever lies and misconceptions
Summer pasted over suntan lines
And smoke tinted windows.
Autumn knows what needs to die.

And sure, you'll write your love songs into May
And find that chirping birds inspire
And (fine I'll admit) I'll wish for warmth in early March.

but Autumn!!
Wakes me up with Christmas bells
And wraps me in a new stranger's embrace,
Suddenly not a stranger, not at all.
Surprises me as she coats this bare tree in
And whistles wind to songs I understand.
For I grew old and died along with summer's passing.
So long ago it doesn't phase me now
But I grow young amidst the open dying of
The breath of life I know will take me home.

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