Frost Moon
Death walks with me
but there is no scythe.
For some it's sudden, done.
For others, no swift
taking, but a slow
evaporation, a stiffening,
a brittleness, a steady
sloughing of the self.
This rain is heavy, loud.
Fallen leaves turn black
and slimy, sink into mud,
slide on pavement. The moon
is invisible, but cold. This
is not a freshening rain.
This is autumn's rain.
This is winter's rain.
sharon brogan
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://www.sbpoet.net
http://smallpoems.sbpoet.net
|