Autumn –the season named – the end of each loud day a wave in the voice of time.
The night’s gently gravity reaches out for your shadow, nostalgia’s chilled pattern of longing.
Autumn and the land is tinged with blood. Time slows to a quiet stream of moments.
Moonlight’s camber turns to foreboding, memory like pond-tarp rises to the surface, muddied forms escaping capture.
Autumn’s moist gown of leaves, the soft clock of earth signaling its first chill. Your presence lingeres in the beauty of decay.
Still, there are crevissesof light – although a moss mosaic of sadness inhabits the heart’s waterways, in fragile drops of dappled light, hope shines through.