I am better in your life as breeze--wind
that lifts your leaves and then is gone;
as one who whispers in the wide--open
to the turn of force from south to north,
before the flesh of Summer falls to rot
with Persephone, caught, below your foot.
Away with me! Before I startle quick
your timid heart and am denied, come Spring,
the rising of your brown to green to blush.
Allow me, as that Maiden goes, to stay
as one you've known since we were grains of ash
formed, by chance, into wind and leaf. Will you
recognize me, before the Autumn's light,
where poets and Romantics go to die?

10/27/2009

Posted on 10/27/2009
Copyright © 2025 Angela Cotterman