The colors widen, the air is alive,
Full of dying fire and sweet decay.
The forest opens out to deeper vistas,
Orange distances, death in all its finery.
Firewood dries, as the grasses, scythed, are tied
And rasping seeds that rattle in the gourds
Whisper in between the flickering crickets,
The scraping of the leaves, as silence sounds its chords,
A dissonance like frost, a brittle harvest,
This is all that is, and all that never was
As life receives the endless gift of ending
And death is made forever, all ephemeras
That cling in ragged trees, or is it me
These more-than-human feelings are about?
I quail before the depths that fill with air,
The long horizon and its gentle mists of doubt.
Posted for Gooseberry's Garden, just because...
