October ushers forth its own fangéd dreams
Sinking its sharpened teeth into the lushness of the future,
As with cadences of moonlight falling, as do the deceased
Raindrops continue to rain over those who in their silent
Brotherhood share the pain of stillness.
A quiet, unassuming autumn night so quickly transposed
Into a whimpering tree of oak; like a love exposed,
Trembling softly over caring, soothing hands, pleasureably
Awaiting the events to come: in one’s case, rapture,
The other’s: a malignant frost.
The rhapsody of empty twigs tantalizingly close on a closed
Window frost-encased; with the wind charming the pane,
Much squeaking it makes, as in high tones delivering a voice
For a sunlight redeeming, in deepening hopes of rescue,
Admiring a basking glow
The squeals of surprise are heard inside, to cold twigs of one’s
Hand playing over the frame without shame; the dreamers
Inside awaiting their moment, coolly unaware of the crisp
Coldness of anguish, only buried in joy, welcoming the bliss
Of their own shared warmth.
Yet more amazing still
Being so quickly a lonely oak clawing for warmth
To enshrinement in such a paradisal temple.