Autumn Sometimes Walks To Summer: Verbose

Sweetgums’ autumn scent
claims this sacred clearing
from the darkened, dappled ground
up to the morning sky.
A canopy of intermittent starry fire
is held above the
sweetgums’ long-stretched, rugged necks.
Or are these columns legs,
in stockings made of dark, rough bark?
Do sweetgums walk at night?
Their black-brown vaulting holds
the stars of fire high
above my head, and keeps me safe,
although a star or two is always
wafting down. They sometimes drift into my hair,
they rustle softly underfoot,
a dry, sweet snow of sweetgum leaves.

In drifts of ruddy stars upon the ground
my steps disturb a layered natural order.
New and tender, gently laid in current time,
the stained-glass wines and reds
are stripped away, and show
the brown-black ferment underneath.
And in that dark transition zone
where fire is changed to earth,
a tuft of summer grass
will sometimes show.
A gleam of August green,
untouched by fall’s decay
above its head.

Note: The title above comes from two places
of current color transition.
One is a grove of sweetgum trees.
The other is a mystery:
My gmail chat status was set to busy last night,
and when I woke today, I was available, instead.
It changed itself, from orange into green,
like autumn walking into summer,
like August grass that flourishes
under mounds of autumn leaves.

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