solstice

It's as if autumn died in me today; i embody the ending of a gold october.
my thoughts all tarnished, decomposing brown -
Plath and Rilke seem passed, brittle like bits of dead leaves. It's the tag end of something in my heart.
the geese have flown on, the orchards picked and abandoned,
i can't even write in meter.
Why? why this compost of unease? Why these lonely piles of brushwood?
You said you loved me, and I replied in kind,
but...there is a puritan sabbath soberness within,
physical and spiritual disconnect - it's as if autumn died inside me.
Where is the flaming maple? Where is the harvest moon?
Where is our mad laughter joyous in this sharpening wind?
I can't even write in meter.
My thoughts are dormant, stale....I think I will wait for the snows.