Old Fall
When old Fall winters himself
Eagle-like, bold, and swiftly
Gliding, wings adrift,
The eyes ahead,
Something splinters inside me,
And vanishes like old Fall himself,
Replaced by the arrogance
Of Winter, unstoppably fixed,
Immutably stable,
Coating and covering
With a blanket of frosty rest
The thin, haggard, barren limbs --
Old Fall's pretense is my own:
Calm and cunning, but never
More than a moment's
Whisper, unspoken,
From the pallorous
Death that subdues his illusion --
We are broken, pulled
Crying, led away by the hand
Of a harsh governess,
From the dream
That we are more
Than a composite of breath and dust.
My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.
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