Dom Perignon '61
"conjoined with the whole
we play our life role
exuding a scent
granting love consent"
We burble and bubble likes ripples in a swift current.
It's our role in life, but not everything can we control.
We scowl and frown, howl and drown in sorrow
like wolves baying on full moon nights.
When fright fills us, lips quiver, praying to the life giver
for one more year, one more month, another day.
Our world darkens to gray as we try to get away
from the enemy ~ fear ~ from which we beg deliverance.
Another moment of breathing, of loving is what we desire,
but to a leaf, it's the length of its entire existence.
As a bud, a sprig of green, each one begins to grow.
Does it know how little time it has before its demise?
Is there the slightest significance given
to hands of a clock when a leaf is oblivious to time.
Spring is the birthing season and like us in youth,
young at heart, but quickly its skin ages
supple becomes wrinkled, opaque fades to translucent.
The way of the leaf as autumn encroaches
is to change color, day by day as Fall approaches.
From green to crimson, russet and gold
while in grief, its story is being told.
Our dark tresses lighten to gray, but
peace can be found in the way of the leaf
across a sea of color, on the ground they've fallen...
tumbling from dawn to dusk in autumnal winds.
Nature gives its consent for leaves to fall
as hearts give us the direction to find love we seek.
Life can have the sweet scent of a flower,
but how long will it last for the rose or for us?
There's nothing more the leaves or we can do
but prepare to be whisked away, withered
from the limb of its tree or for us from those we love.
Our roots are shallow, but to the ground returned.
Mortality feeds on grief.
It is the way of the leaf ~ their belief is that life must end.
There's nothing that will amend life's predacious call,
but if we could we'd uncork a Dom Perignon '61.
What will be in my heart when it beats for the last time?
Who will be in my thoughts when I take my last breath?
I'll not end this line with the rhyming word... not even in a whisper.
Copyright ©
Lin Lane
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