Autumn is a Rusty Birdcage
If flannel was pink could
it ward off a rainstorm?
If green slept in your eyes would
you wake to new growth?
If blue was a watering can would it
finally quench your thirst for the sky?
Autumn is a birdcage of rusty iron
trapping us between fire
and ice, a resting place of
amber and gold. A sunrise
of shadows thrown like
bars over our songs.
I listened once and knew you,
before the chill took you home.
The cicada song stutters in grey green
like rattlesnake tails on branches
of early autumn oceans.
We are statues before the bees.
Nothing to offer of sweetness.
Only skin and blood and a way
of killing everything beautiful.
We cage the birdsong and
wonder why it doesn’t sound as free.
October 5, 2023