Octobre
by Mary Lambert
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This golden wreath of a month,
tinged with blood and berries,
hangs in smoke and lake mist
like the breath of creation.
Ringéd fires of shining pumpkins
sit amidst skeletal fields like
lanterns in dark places.
Sunny, swirling motes create
diamond galaxies from dust and decay,
linking mystic to earth through
Indian Summer's altar of
ecstatic color.
In watered, golden sun, Death
waits, grinning, as the last
orange flame licks at our hearts.
Dry, crackling air awaits
our final bow off the precipice into
the frozen void, our robes
floating 'round us like webbed
leaves.
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