poem 347 of a poem a day for 2012

in the steam on the kitchen windows

I will remember this day

the deep billowy grey

darkening the skies

and coming alive

these clouds 

are roiling courtesans

they pinpoint 

in pierce yellow 

the barely held green

at the top 

of a small maple tree

I have spied

through the houses

at the back corner

of the yard

shards of Sun

smell an entry here

tell the other trees

that bleeding time is here

that under the full Moon

rapture becomes

the capture harvest gleam

as all the seams

are ripped open

this time of year

we know the bare

sentinel desire

we circle our time with

what is inside us

that has never been broken

we hear the ghosts

of circled eons

best beneath the wind

in the calendar of investments

when we call the fire,

rain and rooted earth

to all that remain

in our plain view of things

we turn the wheel

along the way

one might remember

each moment gone by

in the sound

of its final breath

the postcards of Summer

for instance

are sowing themselves

into the fertility

of shadows under

what sunlight leaving

leaves behind

there are bonfires

in those trees

in these maples

that bind

that burn sugar

back to the rain

they say in cackles

and hisses

that Autumn is here

with its attendant revelry

and regales of orange,

red and yellow

they are letting 

the eyes know

to close and take stock

in the scented sacrifices

that are rising all around us

in the sweet decay swaying

that covers the carve

of the wind

and goes where memory

is another cave we seek

to shelter ourselves

from Winter with

EJR ©