Autumn Voices

Autumn Voices

Fragments of a shattered past,

  Scattered and battered

The vision of a coup de grâce

  Adorns my temple-

A momento.

My cupped hand holds

The autumn by its breath

And frost. Kisses to my nose.

Gold rain. Half embellished

Branches. The cycle

Ever-indefatigable.

With a crunch and splash

  My sole goes through the

Boulevard of solitude

And the drip-drop of the sky

  Pats at my bare head

With a creak,

Through the Gate I pass,

Head bowed, tucked in, no care.

A squelch as my sole meets mud;

Dirtied, dirtied, dirtied.

Then He spoke: Thy

Quandam self must be

Slain lest thou defect.

But hark, even angles

Cannot be wholly perfect

Ne'er imbibe a grudge

Lest thou feed it strong

But caress it with thy goodness

Shoulds't thou seeketh no wrong

Speak not of thy countenance,

More from sorrow than from anger,

Shoulds't thou seek refuge

From the Wan Wanderer.

I heard Him then,

But never again.