Impatient chrisms of Summer Storms
that break
and crash like Autumn leaves
sealed petulant upon my neck
and brow, and lips.
When Ash has shed his marks
along the evening road,
that closest murmer turns to scorn.
There are always leaves
among the varied trees on my
evening road
that are falling.
———————
Elsewhere, Autumn
bursts like a tiger
roaring and leaping from
tree to tree,
leaves only open wounds –
spilling sap, that
furious death-bringer.
Here, upon my evening road,
Autumn creeps like a tabby –
settles for the milk
we leave by the door each night.
She hunts the field-mice
till they are scarce –
and when the Ash has shed his seal,
the ember kindles Maple.
———————–
There are always trees,
on my evening road,
whose leaves are beginning
or completing their Autumn ritual.
The tabby stays and sometimes
slips inside an open door.
We expect her to leave,
but Oak
still bears a chrism.
She shelters through
a cold Winter
and in the Spring,
as new buds peek on my
evening road,
she leaves
with the last kisses of Autumn’s Oak.