I have for you;
mask of love,

sewn to mind,
which despises of.

Summer’s funeral has surely come!
For sure it is bedtime for the warmth
and the awakening of the chill.

Trees have been ***** of their leaves.
All that stands are their naked bodies;
opened to the abuse of winter.

How beaten we are, how abused by each other.
Shall hell’s fury or heaven’s grace rule?
Our moon cuts a wink for us in the night sky,

shall we ever be mocked further?
From spring’s birth to summer’s life,
fall’s ill to winter’s death.

What strange messages
has autumn handed us!    

They hold their branch,
by their withering root.  

Once flushed in greens,
they fall, die, Indian gold.

Blanketing our solid grounds,
quilting our grey ways.

Coming storm I am,
drifting, distant,
dampness of rain
from afar
sodden your lips.

Closer, the storm carries
in gentle arms
of swift winds,
each drop
of tear-showers.