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Poem

it's October
the air around her is cool
like her thoughts these days
she looks at the branches, twisted
much like her mind
they are reaching upward
but she is grounded
forever in time
 
she heard the clatter of branches
smacking against walls
and the crash of metal
screeching brakes
screams of pain
and then nothing
but silence falls
 
she  runs to the window
sees the audience
stare at her
then through her
riches to rags
gold to nothing
her fame is gone
 
the trees below are turning
from gold to red
the leaves tossed about
in a slight wind
they spin
so graceful as in dance
a slow spiral down
and she longs to join in
 
she reaches towards them
tastes the cool air
as she falls down
grounded with the leaves
 
the pavement turns red
as silence falls
in October's air
 
 
 
 

The suicide of Dorothy Hale
October 21, 1938
(painting by Frida Kahlo)

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