October 19 by The Running Son
• §easonal drift •
Autumn, a leaf falling.
A matter of winter gravity; no longer the humid hands of summer
to see-saw ease me free.
Electrical charges crackle
hungry and crisp, static attacking once supple surfaces, shifting
moods by polarity,
splitting me clean to the vein
where capillaries (and their dowry of air) sub-divide into dust, a perfect
casting of ash. Here,
black and white must curve
to conspire for color parity and sharing, and water blue leaves
must settle in and assume
hues needed to breathe,
in another’s red rusting be fed, and by the seasonal laws of alchemy
become spring feed.
by Jim Aldrich
Written for the Daily Post daily prompt: Seasons
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.