Nov 142010
by
Mark Goodson
Leaves are falling
Through the dark.
The night is sprawling
Shadows overhead.
The wind blows
A cold remark
That nothing more
Needs to be said.
The sky arks
Inward, at each point
Of pressured twist, before
Stem and branch disjoint.
The moon glows;
A misty tint,
Tries to follow
The way light went.
The chilling gust
Of haze ignites
The flurried rush
Of whirlwind flight,
Grounding to death,
A dream in sight.
God holds His breath
To wake the night.