Every thanksgiving they fall, all the passion colors, shapes of life.
And the rain laves them, turning dust to brine, ice to memory.
Ritual disintegration, the disrobing of hope, of life, the color wheel. And all that is black is wet, turning back to Persephone turning to her dark lord.
These the passion colors of the north, fit winter brides to Wordsworth’s pale gold sun and flaxen spring.
I am out of my sun.
Too gentle for my ‘dark hot’ passions; a cry follows their escape into fall. And their blackness responds with silent snow to my charred summer.