Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Alison McKenzie

Autumn 2011

Crisp wind tugs at tenacious anchors;
... The dregs of chlorophyll
Faded to golds, reds, and rust.

They cling with anticipation;
A fated, final dance
Teases on the flutter,
Waxes, wanes.

Piles of the exhausted
Stir in death’s slumber,
Their applause hushed
By their climactic conclusions.

Soon I will gather
The delicate cadavers
For burial,
But for now, I recline -
Suffused in the earthen tones
Of their scent receding.