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warm summer tales with words of August,
July's apt prose of starry days and wandering moons
lie silent, lie cold with Autumn.
Hallowe'en clowns shiver and laugh
and hold their doorsill gifts, like parcels fit for sending,
as brown paper wolves
huddle in the dark and keep their legends in tight places
to frighten future children.
orange pumpkins turn green black
as yellows sing with bursts of old sun's melodies,
reds search and reach as white grows weak
from shorter days and endless nights
while we, still sated with distorted tales of summer's ways
find means and ruse and needs to dismiss;
to follow sage directions of November
and to love it, lest we remember. |
