So far this is just jottings that I made coming home one misty day in late November.
They're relatively unconnected but I'm trying to tie them all together.
Apricot moonbeam in October
distills a haunting light,
stirring heart whispers of
things that only a
jack-o-lantern with his
savage grin can comprehend.
Grapevines are hair-netted
after last leaf has dropped.
Pink clouds shoulder the sun to bed.
Mists obscure a violet escarpment.
A bonfire in the distance curls
it’s incense.
Green has faded to yellow.
Naked black trees stand lonely
in the distance their limbs like
their beginning. Wild and wanton
shoots endlessly reaching.
A hawk wheels over an motionless
windmill.
The mist rides in like an
apocalypse erasing a world,
starting new. Swallowing
up violet mountains, barren
trees, lonesome fields of barley
and the tongue of road so that
there is no tomorrow in the windshield
and no yesterday in the
mirror there is only now.
Threatening to be engulfed.
Snow twinkles at twilight
aglitter over black
pavement like fallen
diamonds.
I walk on stars and hear
them crackle beneath
my feet. If I close
my eyes I can taste them
crisp burning a flash out
on my tongue. The iciest
of fire.
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