Forcing autumn. . .

It pushes against the door
with the entirety of its weight;
bursting in,
and splashing across the floor,
tracing sloppy circles
in the dust,
untrodden
for how long now?

Curtains flutter in the window,
chasing silence with silken hands;
and sunlight falls like dying leaves
in the corners of the room.

Forcing Autumn.

How many times
have we seen these things;
organized,
dissected,
disassembled,
reassembled,
played out,
desecrated and reborn?

Afraid of spring,
we bow our heads
and shiver against the cold,
while old ghosts cling like tattered rags
to the dry and broken branches of yesterday.

We shake the tree,
and reasons fall in numbers
like dying birds. . .