Loosely tethered to life by thin,
slack reins
the solemn child stands silent,
weightless, wise;
his granny’s grave was muddy, raw
- and grains
of earthy knowledge hang about his
eyes;
he stumbles through the deep
November gold,
pulls in the sunlight with each
budding breath
while bone-built trees shrug off
their dreams enrolled
hereafter in the registers of
death.
The smokes of autumn thread the
dying year;
the see-through adults weave a net
of words
to wind about the unexpected fear
that huddles in his heart like
wintered bird;
their hands are full of faded
roses, leaves
are burning in their eyes - for
this he grieves.
(November,
1989)
