Her many colored head, bedecked in Autumn’s finery

reclines against soft, brown-hill’d breasts.

Hunching shoulders of sleeping valley walls

protect the lingering leaves, giving them pause

to remain a little longer,

a little longer,

a little longer still for she knows of Winter’s intent.

Her rugged secrets remain, untainted,

even though she hungrily gave herself, surrendering

her supple haunches as Summer’s later lover.

But soon, her long, white atonement,

blankets her with redemption’s cooling hands.

The touch of icy claws rakes her back,

caressing her with sweet death.

She is purified in her dark sleep.

Then, as though in a dream, an untouched virgin

rises again in the womb of Spring.

Half a day and half again

since Donegal’s had seen the man

who truddled round the farberquim

the porter claimed he’d not seen him.

And grumpy Grifflabasherim

insisted he’d seen nowt of him.

Then near to half past quarter ten,

aspied he was near Quibulen,

with characters of shifty sort

and women, or so they report.

His coat in tatts, his trousers torn

his nose a’blooded, face forlorn.

with scuffed up shoes and smudged up knees,

for Shloope was shloshed at Schniffery’s.

Still, so still in your prison bed, saddled with weighted, watered coat.

Your shoulders, no longer subtle and seductive,

but rounded now, head prayerfully bowed.

Your once spiny shanks give way to your insanely colored demeanor

shared only here and now in these brief moments.

No one visits anymore to poke and probe and penetrate,

their sweeter fare to mix and merge for tea and sated palettes.

Patiently you abide the loneliness, forfeiting fellowship of other petaled sojourners-

now ghosts. Their spirits haunt Spring memories and taunt of Winter’s coming.

Your will wanes with the daylight hours;

your breaths are shorter, arms colder, with the grey horizon closing in.

Yet, alone you may be, but lonely you are not

for peeking out from rumpled soil where things long dead, or sleeping,

are others’ voices who pine for you to rise again, resplendent in former glory.

This you promise, but for now you shiver, brinking on edge of night

when sleep, finally, is yours and

you are reborn

once

more.

If two is three but less of one

and one means two where one meets one,

then all is none where few are gone

but few are gone where gone are none.

Still once is twice that becomes thrice

and quattro means once more than thrice

then quarter main is main times four

if less than main then less than four.

So now I end my ‘rithmetic

my brains all beat up with a stick.

If ever numbers you would know

look elsewhere please, I’m far too slow.

Slip shod past the wimplebee

goes Woodriff Shloope, at half past three.

This Shlizzmagora found his way

to Littleman’s wharf, or so they say.

Then Woodriff’s portulimpical arc

sat still while still he could be park’d

at Donegal’s the story goes

to drink eleventy more of those.

Now, the dishlee, Grifflabasherim

found Woodriff Schloop and asked of him

to kindly wait till half past three,

to slip shod past the wimplebee.

When weeps the time for passion’s flame

and moonlit stars don’t look the same,

it finds no place where clearing falls

instead, dark depths the heart does trawl.

Gardens, gone from bush to brush and then to hush,

have sung their songs of youthful blush.

To fight the mind’s cruel entropy

one serves the heart’s lobotomy.

But soon in life if not in limb

come moments still, one’s cup to brim.

And then, when whispers fend off shouts

no more weeps time, then, love slakes drought.

Sprung alongside leaves of rust

these feet descend on paths we trust,

these limpid scenes of road-cut dreams

where filigreed beauty fills our seams.

* * *

Disguised as nighttime’s distant friend

she makes her appearance, broad breast extends

o’er field and lake and crispling brook

she hunkers down for one last look.

* * *

Where designs of fall now yield to one

more simple, benign and bids her gone.

Now there must a reck’ning be

when all things living, shall soon death see.

* * *

But when through forest, hill and glen

the wand’rer, stout, comes round again

to find his way from found to lost;

find he will, by faith, his host.