Balm
Cicadas mourn in rasping vibratos
from tree to tree, while leaf by leaf
the summer is interred in gold.
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
finely veined, laced with light,
will not come again
though others 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 autumn wine.
Lethe. Opiate. Balm of desire
to forget our summer ended
in pain and fire.
Sue Scalf
|