Visions of the Seasons

The leaves were swirling, dancing, not falling, but pirouetting with the wind. And they were brown leaves, fragile crisp leaves that would crumble if held.

I watched them move through the space between sky and earth, watched them let the world take them,
watched them and set myself sailing on the dried veins of their skin, curled up as if in a smooth brown boat set to the waters to ripple.

Saw myself a seed,
a passenger on the wing of the world,
moving on a vessle not my own,
riding the tides of the air to settle eventually in the cool moss of
winter breath.

The seasons are 4 points,
as if a star, set routed in an axis of space,
a diamond on a string pulled low,
and watch as the star flies earthbound, and rise,
at the last moment toward the sun.
And the light throws open all points of time,
becomes incandescent until the girth is golden and warm.

What words that break, that crumble once held,
what stars, that move without will,
what winds that blow us clean,
what were these but that which were,
and to all that will come,
like the arcing diamond ascending into the light.

-bl