Chrysanthemums

In that time when the leaves Are on fire, Sparks from the autumn sun, I return To my place of nurturing And ancestors..... It’s there that sleep becomes A deepened slumber, And those old forgotten dreams surface once More, like a cork From a floating bottle, A discarded life Coming back like a ghost in the midnight Hour. Far off the cemetery holds the memory Of grandparents and they too Have found a new journey, their old selves Expanded like a flood of thought... My hand is warm when I place the orange flowers Of October on each grave, Chrysanthemums, And in a split second of complete nourishment I know I’m just passing through And that my childhood has vanished.