October 29, 2011 § 3 Comments
The autumn is red and waits outside in the darkness.
If we’d stop talking
we could hear the trees shedding their leaves,
and how these fall:
the perfect red ones,
proudly reach the green grass
where they’ll be best presented.
The indecisive yellow
which remain hanging on the tree,
praying for the wind to take charge.
And then the ill and tired green ones,
with the brown wounds from their secret sorrows.
These last ones fall through the rosebushes,
and get ripped by the thorns.
Often don’t reach the earth,
but become little fate flags,
warnings to every bold summer.
But the tree, the tree is still beautiful.
Slim and black in the moonlight.