AUTUMN

The dusky melancholy returns,
The brisk, smokey air,
Crisp to the sound,
Of falling leaves,
As we enclose ourselves,
Once more,
Within the comfort of hearth
And home,
Our harvest of dreams,
Their vapour
No longer met by playful sun,
Condense back into the heart,
Hiding again until,
Maybe,
Next year.

NOT I

Some will say
The moon is cold,
Not I,
Not I,
A wonder to behold
Whose alabaster glow
I know of old,
Present tonight,
Igniting a deep coil
The wick of memory,
Never running dry,
Burning the oil
Of infancy,
My quick,
The by and by,
Some will say
The moon is cold,
Not I,
Not I,
But comfort,
Set there
In the sky.

IN CARE

I heard my son cry out aloud
From the land of yet-to-be,
Demanding safe passage,
Your slipway to this world,
The nurture of your taut, silken breast,
And to know just how adored,
Basking, uninterrupted,
In the warmest deep
Of your loving eyes,
The luxurious feel,
That tumbling spring
Of your raven curls in his playful grasp,
Fully restored by unity's hot seal,
As naked bellies rise and fall,
In most comfortable sleep.