the first chill of fall
fires without and flames within,
too crisped these spent neurons,
oncoming masses: bleeding, crying, wheezing, dying;
not this way in early days,
entwining circles, wild webs,
‘til, in march and clamor
again, and later, again,
released my singed breast,
newly baked in August’s oven
and roasted by the simmer of September
hearty ghost betwixt them,
searing specter,
listing at last
processed, diced, sautéed
by the boiling tresses
braided in the working world
complaining, straining, pleading, entreating,
until the cup cannot be drained,
and to ransom freedom, I must away
stripling’s sauciness daring, strong,
if blur-focused, uncarved,
unspoiled to base blight of hope piercing life
tangled even as thread is spun,
knotted about life’s essence,
choking out caprice
of stifling duty,
here to be and there to do,
loss of freedom, cross of service
eyes cast to smoky window,
heeding as nature flows to the sunset,
leading me, pulling me...