The color of changing leaves
is a sign of the symphony we hear.
We arrange the colors of life carefully,
folded underwear in new-fallen snow,
patterns, networks, dominoes,
sand-castles
The color of changing leaves
is the voice that we hear;
that enters our nostril and leaves by our ear:
informs us of sanity between birth and death,
a place were we rest, celebrate, sip
surrender
The color of changing leaves
is a place we all know, a call to the gentle oblivion
of the spectral moment in time;
a place where we stop,
a place were everything rhymes, chimes
sublime
The color of changing leaves
is a doorway to self: the missing piece
the hidden shelf
the genius and genie of the recipe of life:
hidden pieces, old spices,
the knife that surgically removes
insanity of mind from the
soft and fragile arteries of the heart
The color of changing leaves
is the old guard leaving the haunted house
the opening of centuries-locked hallways,
the breathing of thirsty windows, the unfurling
of sensuous curtains, the penetration
of spears of singing light
into that cave of eternal longing:
the cavity, the wrapper,
the pale and fragile slipper
called
you