an electric blue forehead

wears a rusty-gold garland

of leaves.

age old in the youth of heaven...

no nearer to November than

this window to that sky.

or wisdom to that dye.

yet the view's pulled inward,

and the circle implodes.

only to marry the rim of a

brighter sun...scattering the

curiosities of leaves and birds.

glory's the tallest order, firmly

foundationless--with no height to

be taken by a season's standard.

fall on Fall...endear the bare to the

naked eye.