Poem: Leaves at Sundown

 

Leaves at Sundown

 

branches surrender,

so aroused like throats under

those seductive leaves which

hum with autumn’s blush

in wine-rich joys, soaring off

never to fall again onto

cushions of mussed forest beds,

more sensitive than lips when

wind strums their petioles and  

sparks such fantasticated songs:

such moans and coos and trills

of sighs and delights, higher still,

until the amaranth sky

inhales the flighty lust to churn--

to burst, cascade and whirl with

fugues of mosaics, emotional

tinctures of canopied cloaks

and gowns, such brave siennas and vermillions and

umbers and butters whose

myths whisper in waltzes of

silhouettes cast from a campfire which doesn’t

dare to exist except in glades of semi-dark,

where the vibrant flames of the

oh-so-spent-yet-never! leaves

sweep away, players now, forever,

precious as jewels in their spectral roam.

 

 

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