Autumn is a season of sown miracles.
A weather-vane, bleeding red.
Starched auburn perfection.
Old spirits of heaven and earth
torching soil and sky, like love.
With turrets of blushing earth piercing air;
Plum tinted, glinting like a rooster's feathery back
celebrating something no one knows anything about
bringing alive the worn-out tyre of the earth.
Nothing prudent about autumn;
it snatches our eyes through open lips.
Nothing passive -
it forces us to listen to something other than ourselves.
Our heartfelt moans sink in it,
mottle the sienna maple leaves with treacherous tales.
The cold battles of our minds steal some warmth
from its melting ochre pyres and flow past time.