Every thanksgiving they fall, all the passion colors of life. And the rain laves them, turning dust to brine, ice to memory.
Ritual disintegration, 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 are the passion colors of the north, fit winter brides to Wordsworth’s pale gold sun and flaxen spring.
Those my dark hot passions and charred summer. I am out of my sun.