Autumn's Art

When light goes from the sky, hitherto blue And all seems so old and dead, except you; And the cicadas’ concord ceases midday song, And Orion melts, who erstwhile told the lie that nothing’s wrong; Lament not, for smokestacks will promptly climb Into a sky so pastel pale with the passing of the time; Against which softly set will be a blur of orange, of red, At which hearts will swoon and will pass thy frigid dread. As the iced-pricked air elicits the blood of the weeping trees And you, now numbed, are brought to your reddened knees; To the wind-whipped rustle, the music of the ground, You cry and laugh a little at such art, profound. The smoke of autumn will billow about your elated being And let it you will and stand in awe, as if for the first time seen; For a thought will rise as a bubble in your humming head – O how and so can such beauty be made by things but dead?