Smoke floats from the bonfires through the air vents
as we drive through the puddles of pheasants
that flooded into the rushing traffic, bursting brackened banks.
Keepers of the autumn winds, they fly like kites and fall like tanks.
The leaves are burning orange, cremating the last of the sun in memory of the bees,
The wheel of the seasons turns again to bring the apocalypse of the trees,
this is where they’ll lose it all in a yearly anniversary.
For a short while day will last as long as night, the sky like lapis lazuli.
Our sun moves into Libra, just for me, to balance the weight on my mind;
as outcomes take off their masks and all my wishes come crashing in
usurping the mistakes I made in the freedom of the spring.
We’re but conduits of the divine it seems, for like the apple on the tree
I can never make it keep me sweet, never make it rest with me.
Like the leaves and Queens and apple seeds we’re dragged down with Persephone.
Let’s stay in peace, in sleep, while the frost quietens the grass,
in the dark particles of dust form their own constellations from things of the past;
like you, making something new, like condensation forming dew.
Like the ripples from a skimming stone, outlast the hand that casts.