A long time ago,
When October leaves
Would color the brown clay
With violet-red reprieves
And chilling winds would sweep the azure bay,
I remember the dawn of each new day:
How the blood-red cusp would tell us our fortunes
In the earliest hours of morning's portions,
Dressed up in the finest of midnight's hues,
Like the robe of a magus, adorned in blues
And deep charcoal grays, arcane revelation.
And sometimes,
The clouds would weep for the sight.
To what distant land has the prophet retreated?
Neither time nor shame will bear the telling,
And I,
Even I,
Don't know.
27 September 2007
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