Green leaves--coccooned in scarlet, orange and amber--
metamorph, burst forth and flit about like butterflies,
brittle wings lilting on the breeze--whirling--twirling into colony.
And on that breeze the heavens blow:
clouds, like heaving bosoms, holding back
the tears of all creation groans,
for as that monarch-multitude is driven into wilderness
by the approaching winter's bondage to decay,
so we too wander--leaf-like lilting into exile--
caught in the outer-darkness rain and snow,
gnashing teeth as we weeping die:
seed-like, dormant, awaiting
new birth in the apocalypse of spring.
