My Life: A Passing September

Fall is the coming plot point —

I close this chapter alongWith the bedroom windows. Still much to mull overAs a penitent who has snuck a dropFrom the monastery casks doesWhile gazing out over the finger-linked fields,The transitory flocks.

I walk out between the vines,Drop the needle in the groove between heartbeats.The finest classic hits.Our lives build towards an unsatisfied scale,The silence after our final noteIs just as important as those played.

Come dance with meAmongst the thorns and impending frost.Come dance with meUntil our bodies become the soilThat nourish the rootsThat grow new horizonsThat makes porchlight dreamers dream of godsAnd new dawns.