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Oct 2018
The fall came suddenly, almost by surprise
With just a slight twist of an old unforgiving hip
Against The Wind

Unceremoniously, He lay prostrate in it
Face down in a pyre of leaves
A pile of autumn, and since the fall
A heap of _ _ _ _
Against The Wind

How easily he was raked in
By Jack Frost, the apparition of breath
A cool and colorful caller
Always calling with and never ever
Against The Wind

Stillness lay within the leaves
Each one a day in His life
A harvest of days
Blessed or cursed, but fully lived
Against The Wind

His nose spoke first and led The Way
Tickled into sneezing he inhaled
The mossy joy of his youth
When falling into leaves was sport
Ah, to fall
Against The Wind

Then his mind wandered to
The fried green tomatoes of summer
That yellow zoot-suit from his prom
The sweet kiss of ruby red lips
The amber of those moments
All golden sunsets birthed by the night

He rolls over to look at the sky and trees
There are yet a few leaves on This tree
He stands to face the rake
He knows will turn into
The ache of the snow shovel
Yet again, another season
Against The Wind

He leans on the rake
He looks head on
Into The Wind, and says:

Should this winter bring
The Ides of March
So be it, they will come, as always
And should the angels come for me
So be it, I will sing with the angels
Should the demons come for me,
So be it, I will drink with the demons
And should the light come for me
So be it, I will bow to the light
And should the darkness come for me
So be it, I will burn like leaves
To warm the darkness
Eternally
Against The Wind
As appearing in my book Time Travelers, psalms of fern, v2
Also as re-published in The Watershed Journal
Girard Tournesol
Written by
Girard Tournesol  M/The Pennsylvania Wilds
(M/The Pennsylvania Wilds)   
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