Interim of Autumn
On autumn days the earth is cutting, crisp.
Breath floats on air in a raspy call to the wild.
Pockets on coats mimic whips of grain,
And the earth so silently beats it’s iambic rhythm.
When eyes turn to meet raw rural greetings,
See limbs flutter and flit like the red head of matches struck on patched grit.
Cores of warmth are cushioned by sky and wind.
Arrows that point to beady eyed providence.
I crave the return of these beastly hissing creatures at once.
Their arms so graciously turned to wings by the grace of divine intervention.
I have not been so lucky to befriend these gentle beings
And ask how they like offering their bodies to blue and white hues.
Perhaps in another life
I’ll find myself amongst them.
My arms embossed with embroidered silk
And lips hardened into a brittle brimstone smile.
I too would command the eyes down below
As I lifted writhing wings and yelled out my kind regards.
But in this life I am imprisoned with flesh and heavy bone
That weighs me down to my place amongst the wheat.
But that’s alright with me, since I can listen to gentle sound scapes
And appreciate such homely wilderness.