In the cackling
frenzy of Autumn
with its satin fire
and eccentric love,

with its irreverent
benediction
in gold,

with every
living thing
racing to its end,
racing to end this
beauty too rebellious
for our slow-moving
everyday,

I clutch
every moment
with both hands.

Like us,
the forest
never received
the manual for dying,
but it turns out,
it was simple
enough all along.

Why the obsession?
The fascination?
The dread?

Let's skip to the
best part . . .

Honeysuckle
wind-traps,
star-traps,
release the quivering
moon into raw,
profane darkness,
the kind that beats
inside you,
through you.

Rose vines are now
the clawing bones
of luscious wanderers.

Cold winds
now the hardest caress

and the softest choir.

Time, oily as vowels,
Herculean as
our fears.

I'm sick with yesterday
and at war with tomorrow.

Can this be all
it comes down to:
a sheaf of happenings
and reactions . . .
and this?

All the
sweetness and fury,
calm and fever,
tears of anguish,
tears of bliss,
are now
the thinning moon
pouring from
the bloated night,
seeping
through the pines
until
its merciful Heart
is spilled
absolutely.

Just another birth,
this death:
this rumbling
at the edge of dawn.

Now just wait
till you see
the end
when we begin
again.


Patricia Joan Jones