De Profundis Clamavi

we are the wild leaves
disparate, crinkly, frail
layered like splotches
of paint on the sidewalk
until a sudden curling wind
draws us in an upward spiral . . .

and a previously hidden order
becomes apparent.

dances of time’s trinities,
past, future and eternities,
dances of holiness
to sweep away profanities

the longing
and the breath-held hopes
of generations blinded
feeling along the corridors
groping towards
a pinpoint
of pristine light
somewhere

the conscious lies
the unconscious truths

September
is the spring of autumn
fire in every synapse
frenzy
long
before
winter
appraoches

belching

steam

like

locomotives

of some

Norman Rockwell panorama.

So little time left –
no, not just for me alone
for you: I see baby pictures now
and cry, not for my disappearace
but for this hideous disgrace
we leave to them.

I know it is still possible
we could farm wind and sun
in the sahara if we wanted

we could do anything
if we really wanted

but we are
nothing but leaves
lifted
by whatever
passing breeze

remnants
of a golden age
that never was.

.

.

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