Fall

Silent beneath orange and brown,possibilities lie in wait.Whispering of ashen times,they quietly arrange our fates. “Life is death,” sweet Autumn sings,for the moment never comeswhen one rejoices in the dawnwithout the dream of Morrow’s sun. Spiraling like star-crossed loverswho upon the heavens gaze,a withered leaf of fragile portentpromises of greener days. As magpies steal and

Paradise Lost

An invisible hand, of bitter cold,plucks him from his brown stronghold.Once so verdant, supple and proud,now he is plummeting toward the ground.The fall is eternity, grace depleted,the wrath of nature undefeated.Gently he lands, near crystal stream,which babbles past his broken dream.In the distance, now overhead,birds chirp merrily as blue turns red.Crippled and helpless, cold and