Shockingly cold, the old tiger patch
while days are still golden, with birdsong and green,
the aquamarine hydrangeas in bloom,
the squirrels not rushing to deadlines,
but the leaf-tops are red, the humus-
rich scent of what's dead fills the air,
calls cinnamon and soup from dark ateliers.
Altair and Vega still preside in the skies,
dividing the milk in the river,
and the harp strings of Lyra grow softer until
we feel the change, as her swan song transforms
our freedom into the beautiful.
What heaven this is, this ripeness now rotting,
the grandeur of late afternoons stilled with light,
the thinning sky, where voices are rising
to speak distant truths from the other side.
They'll wait 'til the carnival closes up shop,
collects all the insects in jars for the road,
breaks down the jungle to load into trap doors,
and tells the young bucks to cool their roar,
but the merry-go-round is still open for business
and the kids clamor on for a last special ride,
for the knowledge that it will be gone come tomorrow
is most of our knowledge of life.
