Aubade in Equinox Talk

[Guest guest]

The lilac's quiet in its creak,creek slack gone this way back,barely

aware of the undangle,of the yellow bride dying,of the ripened

rage,the sky dive collide,glib-gilt scrawl of falling,the crawl of

light on the grey-bluehills, the head-first flip-side to seeding,the

heart tree hurrying to hibernation,harking to the brave calls of the

dead,wearing the ancient amulet of azure arms,arms urged out of the

ancient amber,the billows, the willow worn memoryof being breeze,

being the treesbeing born, torn before the stormof the season, before

the sprout,the fruit, the pollen-crownof life, of leaving,

coming,running the riptides ofI ~ Am ~ Light.I thrive-die on a

bursting black,orange-red, dying light-years,igniting the igneous,

the sharpcartwheel of diamond backto black coal, mined frombright

death into dark life.I know the earth smellof being buried beneath

the weightof the wait of the brave leaves still clinging,the dream

still dreaming of summer-sweet treesswaying in the breeze, wanting

white under winter,autumn into answer, into echoes, into swift

ridesswimming down the springtime tide.I am the glide to the greens

in anemones,the pluck to pink of gill's unsilting, the perkof poppies

in a planter's hands, pantingto man for water, quick-plucked fromthe

die, a gift for the Mistressof the house.Howl wind -- the

heartbeatpetal-calling, falling from the clear-waterwant, dropping

from the sky dreaming bloodgarden, doomed to its dying, sliding on

the mocktongue lick of elm-dressed elders, ended in

aspen-pasts,oleander-clipped from wheel spin meander,

peony-trippedfrom yard graft, gaffed by a Light rising-dying

andalready eyeing a waft, a way, a color, a soundto be found again in

which to flower.The denial of flight, even as the sap-streamclears the

bedrock, rises up to a ripping wind,drifts towards the sun seeking the

moon,the dream-stem of winter striking sharp,hard and harder, hears

the toll toldtrue against its own wet root.This staring glare-plant

of a lilac mademad with violet demise, a ghostly indigoof incense

limbs in hybrid-ink, stillgone,stillborn in a skylark high, no moreor

less than all the rest, no greaterthan the ladder-backed screechof a

scarlet-mocked mauve,caught, cindered, scorched inmaroon's simmer

end, maraudedwhite of the faint-faced lace, racedagainst time in a

masquerade of mapledmanikins wearing mystery tales, tellingtree stump

thumpers the thin of theirlayers of skin, revealing no worsefor wear

and tear.The Whore of Autumnis rotting off the color, the

texturestints hues and glints, the shadow menlet in the subtle rouge,

in sleek narcissi eyes,in the slanted glance, that slit of goldgrown

light against the movementof the lilac shaking back in sky-worn

blues, in silkened pales,in trails of plumbed heartsbleeding

lightseeds --all of it: sunset, lilac, limbo,lovestruck, lemon

pith,wind minnow…Low the little death and Lo! the large:existence

art, incomparable, portless,traveling in paler tales of the

worldsheathed within you, palershades of the memory prime,more

mysterious, anonymous --a leaf and the twig I believed in,

wind-cleared,appeared to the leafless left in itself, a bas-reliefof

belief, an heirloom brooch-pin spinningthe breeze in lilac-lilting

me-sing,springing the dream into dreamfor the draught-lifted

lover,for love of light dying,for the sound of mysighing,

singing,"Yes, I love all of you!"

 

As I Am,

Mzie