Autumn is dead, just say it.
Even though the pattern
of the stars lie overhead,
pregnant for another season.
we have cut the wires
that connect to Autumns frail amber heart;
And maybe in time,
the leaves will disappear,
fall onto our plates
like grains of salt,
or perhaps be swept up
by some giant hungry machine.
Yet, who is it that knocks on time's door?
A bloody chill from the ocean's shore?
A sister, a cousin, a friend?
Autumn's white sheets are dampened in the snow
of tomorrow.
There, human foot-prints
pile upon each other,
and they pile
and pile
and pile.
Do come, winter, and drown
us all.