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October 2020
On the ground, brown and dying
Crumpled under our feet
I’m reminded of the old words
“In the Fall things die so
in the Spring they may be
reborn.” Maybe reborn.
Maybe not.
A carpet of crimson spreads out
Under the old roots of a tree
I’m reminded of the old words
“In the Fall things die
so that in the Spring they may be
renewed.” Maybe renewed.
Maybe not.
But these are not fallen leaves.
This is no autumnal spread.
No natural harvest between
The living and the dead.
On the ground, masks and signs
Among leaves that have fallen
I’m reminded of the old words
Old dried out words
“So that they may be
reborn.” Maybe reborn.
Probably not.
A flag swept up, lost all color
Indistinguishable from the refuse.
I’m reminded of your words
“Some will die but
It is what
It is.“ Maybe not.
No, it is not.
All things come to dust.
And to dust they remain.
Those centuried chains will rust.
But they still were chains.
