In such slow motion
we walk along autumn.
The first snowflake amidst rain
flickers before unnoticed death.
We dance by with eyes closed.
We skip, gallop, we trip and give a
day or two of thanks. We lift our heads,
there it is: Finals Week.
Like brushing teeth without water.
Like combing hair with thick fingers.
We plunge in with a mask but no air tanks.
Who knew we could live so long without breath?
Original Work published by J.Lyn
Like fallen men they lie where they fell
the foliage falling on and settling around.
Every extremity stripped bare yet reaching out
standing tall and proud though death bound.
It’s true they provide a shelter in many forms
they hold safe, they dance, they inspire.
Also they hold haunted thoughts and memories
And vulnerable fragility exposed by fire.
Like beasts with red eyes amid the distant fog
an anxious enemy may inflict demise.
But there they take their stoic stand
the forest’s heartbeat and resolute nature rise.
It begins with wind that rips at leaves,
shredding some while others can withstand.
Then rain begins pelting, shrapnel hard
and so begins the sound of the damned.
A howling and constant noise confronts
even arachnids among silk dropped dew.
Squinted searching eyes gaze upon purple haze
and miss the beauty of Autumn’s hue.
They seem to take one last collective breath
Then air turns frigidly chill bark peels and cracks.
The ice first clings then crisps each exposed edge
and there the fall is terribly frozen in tracks.
In the still, in the distance, we can find
a horrid sort of beauty in that frame.
We can chose to see the pattern of life
a soldier living up to its name.
We forget the soul underneath who becomes blind
to the golden road beneath him so it might as well not be.
And the leaves shed allow sunlight to drip
from branches like rain, but its not beheld by he.
He has forgotten the journey, he is missing the good
so focused is he on the why and where and what
of the things to come with the next step
as if his eyes are permanently shut.
Just beyond the edge of darkness, a touch
past purple fog, the golds and pinks burn
they caress the leaves, the land, and light
the dark, despite the leaves that turn.