as autumn plants her feet,
cities burst into smoke, shades
and silence, until I can only sit
& grieve as a ruby-dream fades

into the mist; tell me this is earth
breaking feasts to mark the birth
of our bond, tell me this remains
the season where hearts rain

like leaves as they, as we, fall
in love beneath golden trees
& we'll only need to loosen our all
to cling tighter than we please;

tell me that when the perils flee,
you'll return, arms open-- tell me.

Under your bone is life
Under your life is death

Under your death is birth
Under your birth is skin

Sonnet: Second Sight (II)
by Michael R. Burch

(Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.)

Wiser than we know, the newborn screams,
red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means
this close to death, amid the arctic glare
of warmthless lights above.
Beware! Beware!—
encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts?

Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts—
the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist.
Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist—
this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense.
Why can he not float on, in dark suspense,
and dream of life? Why did they rip him out?

He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt—
and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!,
re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null
ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, newborn, baby, birth, labor, slap, breath, screams, life, sight, vision, mrbson

I want to be a fruit tree
I want to grow something
joyful and bright and round as a plum that people could hold it in their hand and call it precious

I want to root into the earth
delivering freedom, arms open singing a cry that cracks at the sky to all gods listening
I want us to cry at the same time
because we're destined to cry for each other

I want to look down upon the pink flesh, familiar because it's my home, extended
my skin stretched out to be a fort for another, a shield and then a home
I want to be a shield and then a home

I want to give them a forest to hide in for solitude
or a labyrinth if they choose, and I'd understand why

I want to give them the mountain, the power to ascend
the hermits path unwinds for them as initiation
I want for us to always be connected
like the jewels that tremble inside caves awaiting discovery, how they owe their sunrise to the pressure of the night before.

For the pessimists you were born the day you hurt,
For the optimists you were born the day you survived,
For those unclassified you were born the day you decided to live,
For the realists you were born on the day you touched air,
For the dreamers you were born everyday,
For the independent you were born into your first thought,
For the hurting you were born on the day you died,
For the empathetic you died with them and you were born with a burden,
For the diplomatic you were born head first,
For the curious you were born skeptical,
For the brave you came out colored,
For the kind you were born battered,
For the lost your were born found,
For the found you were born lost,
For the new and untouched you were born fearful,
For the evil you were born most perfect,
For the forgiving you were born with an undeniable strength,
For the newly classified you were born to change the world,
Fate paves the roads ahead of us and obligated are we to follow,
except, why else did God build crossroads?

As Leaves Go

It begins, an annual dance.
A ritual older than conceivable time.
I have no choice in the part that I play.
My role decided before the first speck of green whispered into existence from the earth of which I sprouted.
I was born at the cusp of light, in mist, in the breath of dawn.
I was bathed with rain,
Nurtured in the warmth of the sun,
Protected with shade and
Blossoming in the light of the moon.
I’ve been secret refuge for numerous, nameless, invisible, fragile souls.
I’ve witnessed life hatch,
miracles become reality as birds stretch their wings and take first flight.
I’ve also seen the tragedy and heartache of those who’s wings couldn’t carry the weight of this world and they were born only to die.
I’ve been a harbor for these weary, wing-ed creators.
The ones who’s burden it is to keep us alive.
And I’ve climbed the wind and reached the sky.
And now, as the last warmth of summer is swept away and the chill begins to last beyond dawn,
Season demands sacrifice and branches begin to sway.
So, as I begin to dry, my color rusting, a shiver makes me take up that ancient dance.
And as infinite others have done for eons of eternity,
I must let go of this borrowed perch that was never, ever mine,
As leaves go.