Heavy skies dance over my head
As a brittle wind whispers
Tidings of more expressive weather
Lurking past the spiral fold of my
The breeze lends an ominous energy to
This twilight season of the year.
The grey weather washes away the
Contrast painted on the foliage.
Expectation hovers all around me, turning the
Thin atmosphere viscous, like cold gravy, or my own
Blood of a December morning.
Red drops congeal beneath the cold heavens.
A cat pauses near me. She preens herself
And watches the blowing leaves, looking for some
Drab mouse, whom she might make bright
Beneath the sunset; whose hidden colors she might spill
Garish upon the brown earth and her own
There is no season like the autumn. More
Desolate than the frozen marrow of winter,
More alive in its decadence, the
Frenzied tarantala of a dieing year.
Seasons come, pass, and change,
But on a crisp October night, paralyzed in
Autumn is always the same.
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