Walking down a foggy morn,
hushed in the heaviness
near the river, where the land is torn.
Maple ladies in states of orange undress
ply their yearly trade above the rainslick’d ways.
Seductive. What lies beyond the fog? Is it
cold and wet and thoughtless? Will I remember it, or will
the half-remembered embarrass me?
Branches slowly beckon in the breeze. “Come, play among us with your children and
their games, for winter comes quickly; The matron of
the frozen kisses fears no man.
Come play now while the warmth of the sun
ebbs from this world’s veins.
Dance your macabre tricks and treats.
Or, go your way and leave us be. We care not.
For we shall sleep and dream slow dreams
of world endings and rebirthing, shadows cast
from a fire’s glow.”
I am rooted, transfixed. Unable to move or breathe,
lest I ruin the spell.
