November 13, 2005
I gaze in wonder at the turning of green to gold,
The shedding of a summer's cloak.
"Does it hurt?
Does the display we chart on 'Peak Maps' mask a painful process?"
I've not yet met a morphosis that came without a price.
My soul account is still in the red,
indebted by past moves from here to there.
But I'd pay again.
When my pride and delusions are being plucked leaf-by-leaf
Leaving me exposed, nude
And shivering in the whipping winter winds
I can't hide a secret delight at the sight of leaves lying at my feet.
Lies and cheap adornments in a colorful pile at my roots,
And I reach for the heavens with open arms.
So, each Autumn, I hear them now with wiser eyes.
Foliage is not yellows and reds,
But screams and sobs,
Glorious and melodius moans of change gone horribly right.