Pumpkin-Like

The leaves hang low in the gray morning. Walking together we hear the shuddering of brown brittle And the weak sirens of tired birds of our lowering light Hanging like burnt plastic over the maroon slopes. Gourded we traverse the crunchy spines at our feet Left to bloat in our autumnal visions, Our grooved and riding hopes Waxen, pumpkin-like, A soldier's march, though our mind Moves in the hollow oaks like a wounded animal Blinking vociferously for the meaning of life. Though we arrange nothing Think of little, And breathe quietly in the simple orange Pulsating with grace.