~

she shows her loss
in conflagration,
her death in
varied coloration;
in life support
of beautied kind,
she displays for
all mankind
her burst of
brilliant orange,
of rusty red,
and deep magenta,
of richest shades
in burnt sienna.
all are losses
soon to be,
loosed from limb,
and fallen...
from her tree,
to the earth
for all to see;
master of
this burning fire,
fulfills the eye
to heart’s desire,
she makes sweet love
with dying breath,
she breathes her last
with heaving breast,
and summons all
to watch her death,
to bid adieu
in living color,
and thus fulfills
her yearly drama;
showing loss is
more than death...
tis cold winter’s
icy breath
that breathes
anew each spring,
and thus the
cycle filled
she the chosen,
she the one,
to bring new life,
awakened sun;
renewed to us,
and thus,
the rays of hope
again, begun!

~

*post script.

my inspiration for this creation is simple... the posting of a dear HP friend, K. Mae, who wrote these simple and profound words here...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1435498/see-through-loss/

thank you K, for helping to open these eyes to the riches that lie before us... even in loss!

In the black coffee of night the moon pours cream
through the open window above our bed and lightens
the umber shadow stretching across the pale linen wall.
I want to paint you, your skin canvas smooth. Your breath
teases my touch as the hands and lips of new lovers do.
I dip my brushes into the liquid cups of your palms, load them
with color--madder rose,
vermillion,
scarlet,
carmine deep, cerulean,
turquoise,
lemon yellow,
burnt sienna,
ebony, titanium white--
to mix and match memories. I trace the whorls of your ears.
One brush fine enough to limn each lash, another of sturdy
bristle to scumble in the nooks of belly and ribs. I use flats
and ovals to define the arcs of your curves and wipe them clean
with rags torn from sheets where we strayed. Carefully, I frame you
in my arms and dry you with whispers.

Every steady stroke of lead staining the spotless paper,
Takes shape into a vivid sketch of her blueprinted future.
It was her hand that steered the pencil up to the final detail,
But it was the tenacity in her being that polished off the masterpiece.
The draft was no evidence of a foreseen tomorrow;
Rather, a subtle illustration of what can bring that vision forward.
It was but a portrait of herself;
Her hair ablaze in burnt sienna with tinges of orange,
Every strand of it splashed with colors of burning hope.
Her eyes, as brown as they are,
Traced with fine ebony lines of boldness,
In them is where wild reveries come to life.
She is the outline, she is the plan.
She is enough to be an artwork of her own.
She is the pattern, she is the design.
She is the finishing touch to her own creation.

Summer never ends, these days
And days drag on until
     You spend all night just wondering
When Fall will cool off all
     this lovely strain
     and sweet distress--
Will just bed down in burnt sienna
     and sleep off sepia tone headaches
so you can sleep all through next Summer,
     store your dreams in sweet October
--keep them fresh while the rest decays.

Flip the card and snowy streets
can keep you company through winter--
Keep you smiling through Hot Summer--
     because we don't have Spring no more--
Until it's time to wake at year's bedormance
                                           once again.

All the seasons start to look eerily alike
     after so long at one latitude,
But at least there's still one as speaks
     with seeming silence.

this morning's fog paints the sky a bleary white,
a blank canvas for streaking black birds and
deep green oaks to dance upon.
a forgotten cold wind sweeps in
over the blue blanketed mountains
dragging the new season along
with a caravan of burnt sienna nostalgia.
the smell of leaves dreaming of
their fall to come crinkles on the earth below,
and they rattle with anticipation
in their wooden beds.
steaming coffee trickles down throats
****** open with yawning
and swaddled in knit scarves
from the crisp, saturated air.
the thickness of the day is delivered
again, and again, in a thousand
cardboard packages
and comes with a knowing feeling
of endings and renewal.

At
the time
of a late day,
when the sky has
diluted colors of burnt sienna, lavender gray, ecru and blue bell
and it's clouds are a haze of purple that seem to transcend into the other worlds,
the specks of light below these black, black boulders, so-called mountains,
become dots of light to thy eyes behind the thick glass of the moving vehicle,
reflecting
all but
life.