Hybrid Prose Poem
Contemplating Our Waning Autumns
Her gusts arriving on nightingale wings
Autumn sun sits at canted angle
where all seems to slow as sepia seeps in,
blushing leaves before they frost and fall
to pavement, slickened by rain that has fallen,
that always seems to be falling
just beyond frame of perception,
and yet somehow, while it rained earlier, maybe you hadn’t noticed, but you still knew — you always know — it’s just a matter of vibrations and sensations
playing off one another, just like autumn and poetry — one begats the other as the other yearns for one’s return — and yeah, I can’t quibble with laws of nature — I’m just
intimately acquainted with her rules and
my infinitesimal place in her
harvest’s cornucopia.
I’m just here to capture gold on the leaves.
Autumn gusts descend on nightingale wings,
raking sharply across skin, crisping at surface,
igniting nerves at chill-inflamed joints,
and when inhaled, imbuing us in blue
