When did dapper
cedar waxwing don
tuxedo for the berry feast?
Dressed to the nines in black mask and tails,
gliding over
the ballroom of fallen water lilies.
Musk of collapsing melons.
Zest of the last chrysanthemum.
A bad hair day for the caterpillar.
Why does Mama Coyote flash
her platinum bling in the moonrise?
How could you not notice naked Alder
drop her golden gown
with a shrug of Autumn?
Fling your garment of excess away,
woven from an endless thread of causes,
herringbone tweed of past and future,
twill of gristle and stars,
infinitesimal knit of rainbows
lining your
breath’s dark cocoon.
On this self-luminous morning,
when the world seems all one silken
sutra, half whispering, "Thou,"
half sighing, "There is no other,"
friend, if you must go to war,
win it in your belly.
These woods, these prairies and insouciant
ruined gardens of September
have nothing to do with your disquiet.
They simply celebrate
the victory of flowers.
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