By Catharsis Jones
Underneath the turning wheel of sky,
autumn crackles from the ground
in yellow bones
Reaching from the restless grave of spring.
And what a spring it was!
Dewy green dripping nectars sweet from every blossom swollen
Every lush and juice-lit fruit overflowing,
wallowing drunken between soft petals with the bees,
And nights aurora-green in luminescent light.
We whirled with the whirling, buzzing, drunken maw of life,
our bodies quaking with every gentle breeze,
Drinking in each others’ serum sap
beneath a canopy of red camellias,
exuberantly throwing out seeds
into the ether with everybody else.
But the sweet nectar turned out to be poison
and every seed stillborn.
And now it’s autumn.
The flowers are gone,
all of them.
Leaf has fallen now
crackled into the ground
out there by the lake beneath my feet,
forever severed from the branch that held him once so near.
Let the soil take him under, where he would have taken me.
Let him compost there, in the worm-filled darkness of the earth
And in the spring I’ll sink in roots and suck back everything he took
and burst forth in new flowers leaving nothing of him but husk.
resting in the branches from which he fell,
The murder has returned.