The days lit orange, draining
westward behind horizons.
Leaves burn so gold they sting
my eye, September cut and spilled
already when I wasn't watching.
I didn't notice green had bled
again, the soil: cellar damp.
The summer fled centuries
ago – ages steeped and gone
underground. My feet
press on paper-thin graves.
A maple sheds away the dead,
while these veins are tied to bone,
these cells wither dry within.
For this you will outlive me.
As a reprieve, you drop a leaf
to my cheek where it falls
to kiss me and bless me before I die.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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