This settles in my mind as we enter fall and I feel change and loss stir in me and mine:
My Summer is through
I'll put a shotgun to the trees
and squeeze fresh blasts
What part of my lover have I
not sunk my palm and fingers in?
Now. What parts of Autumn
will be strange to my shoed feet?
Or will the ground be untouched
leaves waiting to be stirred,
while the wind - a wallflower -
only passes sidelong gusts
I will then,
shave this beard
when the season is past
and Winter has lost It's starless grief.
I will then walk
barefoot and barefaced through
new-birthed fields of dandelion and thistle
I will then spread my fingers
from my palms to see what weeds I held:
Sharp reddened petals to the ground? A blast of ghosts to the wind?