Tuesday, November 3, 2015

I watch the young run and jump through autumn leaves
In all my years, I am those leaves
Red and golden, as they rustle by a cold wind
I watch the young trundle in joy through deep snow
Soon I will be that snow
After the spring
Their summer
The last autumn of our lives
The winter foretells us beneath a graying sky--it is time

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Have you ever had a dream of the dead coming back as the dying?
Their old white skin; their breathing in and out, in and out
This ghost dies once more
I ask: will it come in and out as a haunting sorrow, this dream?