Author: Michael Angelo

It is late.
Beneath this moon
hangs an autumn chill.
The scorching heart eases with its touch.

In this space of cold clarity,
eyes close and ears hear.

From some long dead summer field
a familiar voice reveals
words that are echoed thoughts
beneath thoughts.

They speak
of a season changed.
They speak
of a sun veiled.

They speak
of fallen leaves.
They speak
of precious loss.

They speak
of gifts they offer.
They speak
of auburn woods and maple leaves.

They speak.
They speak
the word open.

Grief is a hot breeze swiftly
passing through a window
open to an autumn morning.

There is a child
in the woods
There is a child

His hair is leaf
his smile is water

In his cradle of beech and maple
he rocks to an evening lullaby

His eyes are sunset and horizon
his breath the hazy sky

Before his mind slips into a sleeve of stars
he turns his head to say goodnight—

but the owls have left.

The fireflies have darkened their lights.
The crickets sit like silent gargoyles.
The leaves have hardened into frost.

There is a child

There is a child

There are no woods.