yellow maple leaves come unpinned
fly down and scatter on early snow
carpet strewn with net of sunshine
points wagging and draped into every crease
and footstep, extravagant the multitude
of yellow star-shaped splashes, dying
I remind myself, on their way to brown,
to dry and crinkled dust, their thin bodies
displayed across an acre, grass
pile of refuse boards and discarded bicycle
covered alike in white dappled with yellow
all are on their way to dying.
Can I surrender and be strewn like this
in my dying colors?
jack-o-lantern lit from within,
grim reaper’s eerie grin escort me
to the other side of summer.
The November elections bring us closer
to the grave we fear so much,
but I am hopeful, following the maples:
Perhaps all the intrenched realities of life
are coming to their death.
The maple leaf’s public and joyful pageant
stamping every thing I see with its death logo
in this season of the thinnest veil between the worlds
is ignored at the cost of missing the beauty
of this stage of transformation as the world
prepares to travels its root to the Source.
by Phyllis Capanna © 2014 joyreport
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