With All Fine Corpses

With All Fine Corpses

Autumn has come,
With all fine corpses masquerading in the folds,
Of her steady winds as they ride cool,
Through the night.
At her building breath,
The trees shedding their fading endowment,
Of a Season past.
She is present now,
In all her fired splendor,
In all her rain-soaked ash,
Her dance a whirling dervish of delight,
Upon the Harvest.
Her song a childrenโ€™s chant,
On the Eve,
of All Saints.
Her light a dim glowed candle
in the center of the lantern.
Her perfume, mulled, spiced cider,
Sweet cinnamon,
Her tea, a little Sassafras with black silt mud,
To keep away the wicked
for a while.

The house rattles, shutters shake,
A kitchen cabinet creaks open,
Swings free on a gust swept in,
Through the window.
Settle now,
Settle down,
Settle in.
In the shrinking distance,
Hear Winter,
Howling at the Moon,
on her wayโ€ฆ
Over hill,
Through the shadows,
Galloping,
Even paced over the well-trod path
Of every wooded thicket.
Her icy fingers grasp tight the reigns,
Her blood a river of veins,
Frozen blue,
In her skin the white of snow,
Her flowing cloak the Arctic wind.
Her eyes disguise the Northern Lights,
Behind her midnight scalloped veil of dreams,
Asleep in her depths,
The transformation of the landscape,
The death of Autumn,
Riding on her heels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From “Covenants of Lingering Bones”, available on Amazon.
Originally published with Thunderdome Writer’s Collective- 2011

Image, internet gif

 

 

 

 

 

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