Poets of Autumn

Leaves have fallen;
we rake and burn them.
Smoke signals scent the season
bittersweet.

O! How time does go on,
the pendulum never stopping.
No need to grieve for the trees,
they will endure.

Though the air is gathering a chill,
our Isadora scarves
dance in the wind. We live
in the miracle of today.

This moment is irretrievable;
store it in your heart.
Time stops for no one,
but it will pause for your song.

October Mist

the drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood.
blame it on the full moon,
this loss of logic.

the clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
or the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

it little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.