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 children’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,
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.
In the shrinking distance,
Howling at the Moon,
on her way…
Through the shadows,
Even paced over the well-trod path
Of every wooded thicket.
Her icy fingers grasp tight the reigns,
Her blood a river of veins,
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