We come into the time of bleeding trees,
their limbs as white as bone
and sharpened into spears,
draining the sky of blue.
Every year the smell is different,
a new festering, a novel fermentation,
the simmering together of rot and dying sun,
hope drying to a dust before
sinking below the menacing horizon.
I think every October will be the last.
I wash my face and wade into the water,
expecting the breath not to come,
prepared for the fade into darkness,
the escape from the hard light of winter,
no sunlight splitting into daggers
that splinter my armor and pierce my skin.
Every October, I say goodbye,
and I am sure. I feel it in the air,
the exhalation of forlorn leaves.
The trees never take me seriously.
They know that our wounds will heal
and we will meet again, damaged,
but still persistently alive.
They are older than I am, and wiser,
and, frankly, too polite to mention it.

10/04/2011

Posted on 10/04/2011
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