The pond is filling
with leaves, curled
and tattered and gold.
Wind shakes the gilding
from birch trees; this
neighborhood whispers
with gossip of autumn.
The news tells me my
government lies. I mourn
my lack of astonishment,
seek comfort in Mozart
and Bach. No consolation
for me in illusions of faith
and religion. These words
seem heavy as bricks,
unmovable, unyielding.
Indigestible. They catch
in my throat. They stick.
Twenty years since my
brother's death, and still
I notice this emptying day,
ash trees unveiling their
skeletons, maples on fire.
This blue and vacant sky.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
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