Autumn Sonata
Autumn Sonata
Dear Mozart of Swan-songs,
An October moon writes to
passerine finches,
a replica of your rustic sonata ~
'Through cinnamon leaves, my love and I,
will inaugurate autumn gardens of Versailles.'
so they know
that auburn death has fallen
upon marshmallow streets
and while I am cramming
handfuls of
l u l l a b i e s,
your voice has whittled down,
w h i s p e r s
that usher ghosts upon our moor,
already.
'Is it autumn yet, love?'
Not really,
but I do taste
some missing page numbers
scribed on yellow pages.
I hope that is autumn enough for you,
though I am sorry,
I can't turn leaves into flowers.
'Is it autumn yet, love?'
Come tomorrow, dearest,
I will paint your trees red
and lull the foliage,
flourishing with
a river's footfalls,
to sleep.
'Is
it
autumn
yet,
love?'
Why, dearest,
is it that natural
(for you)
to let things
fall?