Balm
Nothing lasts. Brave hearts die.
The apple on the limb will fall
and even suns go out. Autumn's
sharpest pang will pierce
someone else and other lips
will sing and kiss and pout
know the stain of love lived
past death and gone. This leaf
so finely veined will never come again
netted with air laced with light
though others like it may. In shadows
seeds lie dormant for a while
to live or never live at all.
Sulphur butterflies spiral
in endless dance, bees delve deep,
drinking this autumn wine.
Lethe. Opiate.
Balm of desire
to see the last of summer go.
Sue Scalf
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