In the internal lanscape of my being
it is still high summer
barely the middle of July
with long trails of midsummer
and first harvest before me
Outside in the great world
the year has lurched forward
and the leaves turn golden
auburn, ruddy brown
on the air are perfumes of death
The night time smells like New Orleans
in the middle of winter
the mix of a cold northern kiss
and warm southern mud with the hint of roses
Sweet magnolia and rotting wood
In New Orleans the winter never really comes
a moist version of the old peoples' Summer Lands
at least the guise of eternal youth flowers
between the threat of ultimate, watery destruction
and hope for human salvation
In the Fall I have dreams of love
Embraced by lust like Spring never gives
in the sweet smell of earthly demise
the souls of millions of flowers, weeds, trees
plants of all nature release and ascend returning to mother's lungs
And I, I dream of finding love
it is always this way
When the last rose of winter comes
I will marvel at it
Until then I enjoy the autumnal funeral's colorful pagent
If Fortune smiles upon me
I will enjoy the autumn as much
the day it comes to my internal world
when my own summer ends and gives up ghosts of youth
enjoying the year before it and accepting the Fate of the Winter to follow...
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