Nov 142010

Mark Goodson

Leaves are falling

Through the dark.

The night is sprawling

Shadows overhead.

The wind blows

A cold remark

That nothing more

Needs to be said.

The sky arks

Inward, at each point

Of pressured twist, before

Stem and branch disjoint.

The moon glows;

A misty tint,

Tries to follow

The way light went.

The chilling gust

Of haze ignites

The flurried rush

Of whirlwind flight,

Grounding to death,

A dream in sight.

God holds His breath

To wake the night.