literature

autumn.

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Literature Text

I press the ghosts of dead leaves to my eyelids,
as if to etch their veins and the whispers of edges
in grey against the back of my eyes,
as if to replace the places you cleaved to
and I cleaved.

They are sighs,
last breaths before the letting go
and the fall.

Dead, they are fragile before the wind
and crackle pale protest against my fingertips;
soon they will be gone and done, and gone
and gone.

I let them go,
and, watching, trace with my lips
a prayer for loss
and for the journey.
Someday I will write a poem
and the 'you' in it will not be you,
but Spring.


It's cold in Providence.
© 2008 - 2024 theashesrisetoo
Comments2
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frayedshorts's avatar
This is a great poem. I won't spoil things by trying to point out exactly why it's so great but you definitely have some wonderful things going on in this poem on a million different levels.