this autumn morning

winter’s aperitif

is served on the rocks

shaken and stirring

come downpour now

unleash your jotting scribe and

cast the showery runes of fables untried

forge scripts along our droughty lanes

of songs for all that yet remain

or wash away those pages brown,

whelm witness to our temporal sway

we’ll listen to the eager eart...

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hear the sound of every rusted, blunted mace

as they greet and meet  through gravity’s lack of grace,

each at thirty two point two,

the fateful rate of this heaving season

where fruits misplace a summer’s trust to kiss the dirt

and, where they fall, corrode and stall the wheels of love

for those we find untouchable

while yet our hearts may still enmesh, b...

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