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?