by Gideon Burton
The celibacy of the autumn sky
recedes so easily with nudging hues,
with tissued wisps of clouds that downward fly
across the fading azure, darkened blues.
The night is coming, wet against the leaves
that paste the windows and the quiet streets.
It is already nesting under eaves
and through the fields of corn and ripened wheat.
I must preserve my vows to know this chill,
to blend my hair with breezes as I walk
along the lake, to let the season spill
its ambers and its skies of winging flocks.
Above, the shadows germinate and grow,
and swelling stars pour smoky light below.
Photo: flickr - spodzone