August is a woman full of form and ripened in her sunlight and her rain and so finds her mate September his lust for her inflames those gardens that she tended so softly through her days to make of them gold harvest that his passions set ablaze.
this day painted gold the leaves and signalled souls under the eaves that all too soon the south will call not so translucent glow the clouds which this September evening shrouds the dying sunset of the early Fall, from the last rose petals weep and spiders from their crannies creep upon primeval wisdom all rely for the bounties they have known and that which nature doth bestow will come no more now that the summer dies.
the fire is embers now ripe pomegranate flesh among the pitch its smoke heady late ripened fruit fermented by a golden evening warm enough a vintage to forget the winter’s call yet it is not summer nor will it be again
stricken are the fallen leaves
yet not with existential pain
though unlike us who Autumn fear
with joy that life will rise again
in glory be their golden ends
as they become one with all things
no sacrifice is theirs to spend
they resurrect as doth the Spring
The leaves are changing late this year afeared to show their turning and so the boughs hang heavy here as if for autumn yearning each scarlet blush, the brown decay each golden glimpse in air falls not into the wind at play but holds like summer’s there no seed nor kernal comes to ground reticent to their fate and from the trees comes not a sound their leaves are changing late.
this early fall knows not her mind which changes from dark thoughts unkind a cold and wasting served attrition unto a warmth of disposition that pleasures bloom and beast alike and gifts them summer’s endless psyche only to unleash hell’s storms and taste of winter’s kiss at dawn.