Autumn

In autumn when leaves are gold and rust
no longer green, stifled as by null, corrosive air,
aflame in burning hue of vitriol sky, I ponder
the scheme of life, the cycle of birth decay
and quietly recall old dreams once made.
Like fallen blades upon the earth were swept
away, wind-blown till out of reach and faded
with acid time.
But dreams unlike leaves need no season
to bear, no rain or sunbeams or ethereal air.
The soil from which they spring is neither clay
nor humus black-
but from a spiritual garden they seed,
even if earthly existence of mind decieve.

Copyright 2008 Francis Don Daniels