Autumn

Fall


I am formless, overwhelming
Futility embodied in drifting
On the wings of Zeus' gasp
Into Hades' unforgiving grasp.
I am preconceived as whispers
Father Time footsore with blisters
In every creak and groan and snap
In each dim-lit feinting pass
Overgrown and under-worked
And often seldom tread.
I shift in fluttered dread
As I feel the earth's derision.
I am convenient hope's abscission.
I will pass in ash nigh Advent
In reds and golds and browns,
For three months absorbed into the ground
Yet someday, life will find it's morn.
Among the pruned and plucked and torn
Upon the dark midwinter's pass
I will frost amidst the dying glass,
And on a warm day as the bleak fades
On a Friday, as the black grays
Someday, there among the thorns
Someday, on a Sunday, I will be reborn.