for autumn. (a poem)

autumn is death
for the play in numbers
finding joy in places
of brilliant creation.

autumn is death
with a straight razor
at the throat of a plump gazelle
or boar, stealing life
from worthlessness.

autumn is life
within death
a voice of succulent
in her marrow
of midnight danger.

autumn brings me
dandelions and calla lilies
in fanciness
in happiness
and in death.

1 comment:

Sharon said...

I like this, it is beautiful.