Wednesday, October 8, 2014

With Each Unspoken Storm

The silver light of Autumn can assure,
To anyone who doubts, that summer's rise
And fall is now complete. A season dies.
The asters in their purple and azure,
The maples in their stained-glass garmenture,
Bring vivid punctuation to the lies
That warmth can always linger in the skies,
That any love you offer will endure.

And you are now my wasteland. With your frost,
With each unspoken storm, you sear the fruit
Of all that we had sown and hoped to share.
The harvest of our love has failed, and lost
Is all that we had hoped to be, in mute
Resentments of your equinoctial stare.

-- September 25, 2014.

No comments: