Quiet, auburn, oaken chest
Cherry tobaccan and nightworn--
The leaves are at their ripest.
Wool-knit and fire-warmed
Brisk is somewhere near.
But for now, just a hazy, ever-burning maze of red ash will flush us clear.
In it.
Within it.
Waves pa** through, but understanding that you're there.
And in a rush of airiness,
Lightly hammered into shape,
Frozen amber thawed and stewed in crusted September bake,
And comes the sunshine
Honey haze
Maze of Eon in a day of days
A comfort in each air
Nothing rotten, not yet bare.
In it.
Within it.
Waves pa** through, but understanding that you're there.
There in that honeys**le glow,
You'd swear you saw it,
You'd swear you'd known,
Whether yellow-feathered cottontail,
Or bluebird singing sigh,
You'd touched the air with tongue,
Taste of sun,
Touch of sky.