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Having Felled It

The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.

The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.

Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever 
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.

The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.

The biting clouds of gnats
are now 
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon, 
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.

The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried 
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash!  a cry!  a scattering!
one down, one murder

Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...

The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well 
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.

We turn our collars up, 
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but 
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the 
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!

Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides 
a fearful, frigid 'you.'

It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.

It's Autumn
Fall burns on.

It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)

I have never felled so alive
as now.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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