| Autumn�s Love There is want to surmise Her proposition in twofold, For I see her eyes and am left lusting In delirium, this sheer parameter Springing forth from the brads that bind me To her consistent, the eroticism of the words She whispers and yearns for; such things She speaks of, wholehearted and solemn, From the sensual corners of her love-primed lips. I dare not disappoint. I do not know How to write of autumn for an autumn Girl that sees this season as a canon, Not one preached but found in three dimensions, Who feels its death as sure as sensing her own, Who would have me transform it into love Through words I do not know if I posses. I hear the lyrics of old songs, Slow and haunting crucifixions of love, Through tears, recalling a thousand nights Lost to dreams and fictions, Breaths spent in decay, Waiting for her to emerge and shine the dull away From the burrow of both eye and mind, Where I recede and flee at the same time With hopes of finding her waiting somewhere between So I might feel and spill warm against her soul, And do not wish immerse myself into typical words. I owe her more than one-syllable nouns Attached out of charity rather than honesty To the backs of strong and weighty words. For love and heart and soul do not deserve Such sententious treatments without moralization; I owe kindred things both my life and my death. I owe her a true face and the tendencies of well-warmed eyes. And I cannot write autumn�s love. It is not a death but a rebirth, A time close to planting new trees When mirrors shimmer in the ponds, Solidifying like the season of her and me, Where the surface will soon heat the depths With the falling of just a few more leaves. Todd K. Bush � November 6, 2004 (For K) |