September Cometh

I tell the ground “be cold”
and its answer is flat and
warm. These days are seldom
anything we need. Dare to dream
for the black and red fires
we can lean to as if they provide
answered solace; in raven wings
that bleed we can see hope.
Perhaps this is all that matters
and the feist in the sky is
all that beauty we have ever
craved. Sweating rocks do their
tribal dances in retractions
of that silence, and still they long
for more. These clusters understand
with upturned hands;
cast upward in our time of need
as this is perfect beauty.


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