The skies are mantled in a cloud
As Earth is cloaked in leaves
Fallen from flora well-endowed
Whose wealth the land receives,
The golden thread of summer’s funeral shroud
That autumn weaves.
A man into his closet delves
For coats of second skin
Left folded on forgotten shelves,
To hold his warmth within.
Like Adam do the people hide themselves
After the sin.
The air is flavored with the spice
Of harvest, ripe and sweet,
Of bubbling brews that melt the ice
Out of the hands and feet,
And festivals to celebrate how nice
The season’s wheat.
There is no more of the blue that blinds,
The autocratic light
That rarefies the different kinds
In hierarchic sight
From which the darkness runs in fear, and finds
Alone the bright.
The world is safe for shadows now.
Secrets and spirits comb
The streets, where one black cat’s meow
Can cut the somber gloam
And teach a magic spell or two of how
The night to roam.
It is the time for subtleties
When stars outlive the sun,
To coze before the coming freeze
With fire and with fun,
To feel the breeze, the breath of ancient trees
That are not done.