The White Lady of the NorthShe among the grass did briefly dwell,
The White Lady, Forerunner of the North Wind,
But she is the end of Autumn's gold.
Her touch is ice. Her kiss is cold.
I will greet her with fire in my hands,
And whisky in my mouth.
I am as autumnI am as autumn,
dropped barefoot into some fleeting role,
self-destructing in the sterile cold
while passersby note only
their ephemeral beauty.
I was meant
as an actress, diaphanous and
bridging the small gap between
I was born to wither and
to sink and
obedient as a child,
I tried to die
in that space before snowfall,
that melancholy breach
but there must be something in me
that is not yet dead,
that refuses to rot.
when the snow finally came,
I was stale and stagnant,
when all else was newly
now, in the dim half-light before
springtime, I am thin
and fragile, waiting only for
Nuclear FallThe world of man had passed; in his ignorance he'd died,
Despite his expectations, though, nature would not subside
An arrogant harvester, gave himself absolute worth
Oh, but if only he could have heard dear Nature's mirth
Man's creations crumbled, his poison dissipated,
Bodies beset by scavengers, pecked at, eviscerated,
And nature's gentle cycles kept on spinning even still,
The trees had leaves of amber once the air began to chill
For all of mankind's worry,
Himself alone did he kill
AfforestLast darkness will fall like autumn leaves
Dusky ground covered with many coloured twilights
(do you see all the lovely greys?)
Underneath which ghosten happiness lays buried
(spring was too far away. Alas)
Last darkness is falling like autumn leaves
Dusky ground covered with beaten light's corpse
(do you see all the dimmed colours?)
Underneath which darkened May Day lays buried
(spring is too far away. Alas)
Last darkness has fallen like autumn leaves
Dusky ground covered with still-frozen time
(do you see all the solemn blacks?)
Underneath which deadened Freya lays buried
(spring will be to far away. Alas)
Hello, Autumn. 'Hello, Autumn.'
Once upon an autumn night, I felt a soft, hissing breeze, tangling the hair around my cheeks.
I heard soft splashing rain as it fell on my eyelashes, creating small beads that reflected light of the distant stars.
I saw flame-colored leaves deserting their branches as they covered the wet ground like a child's cluttered toys. As I looked at the now-bare trees, hunched under grey clouds that blocked the moonlight from reaching earth; I was reminded of obnoxious ghosts--trapped souls begging for mercy with their screams.
And as the rain kept pouring, emptying the black sky, I was reminded of summer times on a rooftop's broken ledge. I would pretend that the drops on my forehead were salty sea-water; that the wet mud was hot sand and as I let my memories take over, falling leaves would sw
Autumn SorrowStill dark water flows by, dotted by autumn leaves. The orange has faded, now, wilted, turned brown as the season has passed. Trees stretch their dark, naked arms towards the sky, praying for sunlight, for warmth, for life. But their prayers will go unheeded for months to come as snow and frost cover all in a thick, cold, soft blanket. The world stands at Winter's door.
Silent steps descend the stairs, the sound hidden by the mournful singing of the small river. Naked feet, red with cold, step on grey stone painted with frost. Dead, brown grass crunches and breaks as the person, dressed in robes of grey, kneels before the wailing statue by the river.
Mourning grey. That is what the color is called, the one the person's robes are. They cover everything but hands, face and feet, rag-like and torn. They cannot hide the shaking shoulders as the mourner prays to the statue, the grey stone frozen in grief, both hands covering the face.
Naked feet, red with cold, step silently onto the stone.
Leaves and LeavingTurning leaves remind me that some people change along with the seasons.
Leaf. Leaves. Leaving.
Hush. If you listen real close, you can hear leaves laughing as they let go of the twigs that adore them. They flutter quietly to the ground, their graceful suicides silent to everyone except their beloved branches.
Look, the world is orange and jagged and rusted. It is decadence and leaves and leaving. It is home, it is heaven, and it is hell.
One by one, the trees ignite themselves and we watch their soundless self-destruction unfold. Whole forests seem to go up in flames without smoke. Sometimes we take pictures.
We are only left with black and brown skeletons that patiently wait to be buried under white.
I spend my entire autumn watching things die.