The Ruination Of Many Good Things

there's a different door opening
allowing an opulent view to arise
pressing forward it arrives to bemoan
bringing certain death in its despair.

a death rattle rages without deception
such dementia becomes unwise
for such is the season that yellows
to color the landscape in royal affliction.

without an ear the change doesn't question
neither the why or how -going about a duty
wandering through the grasses and unbraiding the sky
for this visitor walks barefoot upon the willing ground.

even so there are some who never notice
never see the changing leaf turn itself around
but its always a moments pleasure caressing the eye
seeing what I've sought for of the things that never die.

so each face owns its own story - calls to it in the air
lifts up and casts away a green coat - to dance for awhile
the elements pay no thought or penalty stirring up the dust
still the wind becomes a lovely riot ushering in December.

the trees become widows weeping scarlet tears
brandishing different colors -  they only wish to fall
sometimes it seems the sunlight turns it's back on the dead !
it seems to whisper  - there's honor in dying between life's echoes.

January fires are feverish - its heart twisted and spent
nestling between a white comforter with it's face exposed
it was here that my heart fumbled at the friend I once knew
I've found that every garden has its flowers and every one a show.