Autumn Is For Dead Poets
Trees turn their features inward.
Cool winds
wander in like stray cats.
A fiery death is in the air.
the party colors
are flame and ash.
Leafy campfires
burn the residue of mammoth bones
long since devolved
into the soot of charred mice.
Autumn is the charnel season,
its love is cruel, its farewells
a promise of relentless demise.
Dead poets scrimshaw its beauty
on last year’s death masks,
mice-tusks root up the sun
to warm the naked spaces.
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