Selection 4 of
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The Fallingby Carol DesjarlaisSmudging the horizon with a dampened brush Cloaks the bushes with moist cool blanket Coaxes the trees with velour skirts To give up their green and don the colors For the harvest ball it expects soon to begin. Early enough for the town to be quiet Sleeping with blanket tucked up near its eaves A few migrant vehicles slowly dare to intrude Lights pinpointing naught but a moment ahead For earth is undressing and changing her clothes Curling the leaves on the birch and the bush. Behind the gauze curtains, the Master is busy Tinting the forest for the dinner and dance Stripping the bride of her perfume and passion Bathing her softly with moisture's fresh glow Painting her body in sepia and gold Brushing her cheeks with vermilion and scarlet. Father Sun will awaken and find her quite changed Plump her berries and pumpkins into fat round orbs Add the glint and the glitter to mask the dry days Puts on her brown stockings threadbare and seamless Paints her caves and her caverns with deepening despair Gives her one last wet kiss as she moves closer to old. I, the voyeur, in this pre-death rite Mourn her unpinning and maturing of plight Watch with round eyes and heart full of fear Behind my warm walls and curtains half-pulled Warmed by fake fire and cup steaming coffee Moving towards my own inevitable fall. |
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Selection 4 of
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