A Fall Frolic
Summer serenity comes to a halt in the cold November breeze,
As I careen from my concourse to the street corner kiln.
I see the flickers of my soul coaxing flying sparks,
As a destitute chases the ephemeral flames,
Hoping to preserve the charitiable calidity, if only for a moment.
Lazing past the blacksmith, I share his quotidian woes,
I stop and see his futility:
Clanging incorrigible iron with resignation.
I shed a tear for his trouble,
And despite his imprecations, stumble silently onwards.
I waft past the weekend paramour, reminiscing on a love's lost refrain,
Cradling the progeny of loneliness from the pestilence of frost.
I see a beacon of shadow--nay, a lantern--by her side,
Revealing effete porcelain against the backdrop of misery,
And a touch of rouge, which paints the sky blood.
Finding no swallows, I drift aimlessly into the night,
Nipping at the coattails of a furtive titmouse,
Despite my malicious malingering, I am craven,
For I dare not approach my nemesis, brother Boreas.
No Delphi is needed for this portent: my hourglass turns no more.
All is quiet as diaphanous snowflakes blanket the ground,
At last! A tenuous slumber, like a callow youth in his mother's clasp.
Recollecting past opulence, and present penury,
I glimpse my vestige in the frigid river bed and cry.
I am many.
I am one.
Broken voices, like broken glass strewn across the sand, whisper:
I am summer's waif, now old and weary,
Forgotten in the wake of this autumn dreary.
