The memories are autumn-toned.
Swirls of leaves, gusts of twigs
and a photograph,
that jaundiced with age.
She looks out with lips
that must have been red,
pouting, hoping for the return of some angel.

The season is crisp, like apples
not long for this world.
'Tis a shame. Apples die, people fade
until they become nothing
but sallow skin wearing black velvet.

And so now rest, in your taupe room
with its textured walls and secrets.
Take comfort in the long agos and
times before. Relax.
It's about to get stormy.

But under the sepia sky,
with autumn tossing around
the corpses of leaves,
a woman in a black dress
comes out and makes a proclamation.

12/01/2003

Author's Note: Inspired by a painting I saw at my college's art museum. I wish I could remember the name.

Posted on 07/04/2007
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