Autumn’s Scarlet Sunset

Spring had awakened

before Dawn,

who was slow to slip above

her quilted spread,

having been kissed

by Winter’s spearmint lips

&

freezing temperatures

as she rested

on the cusp

of the earth’s equinox.

Like tip-toe steps

on chilled tile flooring,

she crept atop

the fertile hills

that were blanketed

with dewy grass

that stood, starched

by the bite

of the early hours,

before being warmed

in the orange-pekoe tea

poured from

Sun’s vernal carafe.

Regardless of the absence

of florid, watercolor fields

dowsing the blank canvas,

(stripped by

snow and ice

like turpentine),

the smallest of seeds

would soon blossom

with an indescribable

array of glory.

Though night

had slipped away,

quietly and without fanfare,

the unfurling colors

of sun’s morning stretch

caressed the umber hues

that had shaded

the Red Rock mountains

and flooded the canyons

below her

with glimmers of gold,

interlacing

the naked branches

of Oak and Sycamore trees

as they flanked

the riverbed between them.

Still,

day’s arrival

was cloaked in silence

equal to that

of night’s departure.

Sunrise,

given the power

to awaken life

(absent a voice

or beating heart)

scored the dust and ash

with her ethos

as a branding iron,

all without a sound,

while striking her wand

to beckon Spring’s

small beginnings,

(all that had been bound

within bud and blossom)

to play in unison,

one symphony,

The Orchestration of Life.

Summer was witness

to the blessing

of the former months

as long days

matured garden

and founts

for Fall’s bountiful blessings,

marked

by a pregnant

Harvest moon,

stalling in its ascent

so as to appear

lazily sleeping

atop beds of wheat fields

and bails of hay,

yet,

burning as a fiery flame

atop the wick

of a hurricane lamp,

fueled with oil,

as it consumed

the invisible ether

with its amber-hued appetite.

The lunar lambency

was a near likeness

to the setting Sun,

who,

being closed

beneath the casket

of cresting waves

to be laid to rest,

(buried in

horizon’s grave)

would soon

be smothered

like a candle

falling prey

to the brass snuffer.

It was in motherhood

that Autumn was born.

As her body

intuitively gave way

to the life of another,

she realized

her purpose

in that moment of time.

She was born.

For this.

The radiance

of her love and joy

was immeasurable

and

all the splendor

of nocturne

&

nature

could not compare

to the depths

of the attachment

felt

as she gazed at herself,

cradled,

in the yet to be tinted,

gibbous, onyx eyes

of her newborn babe.

An unmatched beauty

emanated

from the eternal bonds

of body and soul,

woven together,

marking the beginning

of a new season

&

coinciding

with the death

of another.

There,

nestled in her once barren arms,

she saw the tiny seed

of love;

a love so strong

that it would bear fruit

beyond her years

and in many ages

to come.

Instinctively,

enrobed in her new nature

and crowned

with gentle strength,

she quieted the cries

of her infant child

at the breast of sustenance

while dreaming

of the future days

that her daughter

would be stirred

by that same fiery passion;

one so powerful

that she could find

few words

worthy enough

for its description.

The warmth

of her bare skin,

vibrating

with the melody

of her fluttering heart

would suffice

to quell the shock

of her little one’s

translation

from the spiritual

to the temporal

in a ceremony of water

&

baptismal expression,

accompanied

with its angelic attendants,

as it also satisfied

her lack of words

to express

her newfound adoration.

Evening drew near

&

with one final breath,

the day exhaled

and the setting sun

perfused

the Prussian sky

with a scarlet blaze

while

one crimson embolus

extinguished, forever,

Autumn’s breath of life.

She was born

the day she died —

inhaling the scent

of her new-mother’s milk

on the breath

of her precious child

&

exhaling her spirit

to the heavens

for eternity

to shine upon

her offspring:

her moon

in its fullness

fed by

a Mother’s

never ending light.

Thus,

like the delicate balance

of creation

&

seasons,

their harmony

lives on,

day to night

&

night to day,

in the reflections

of rutilant sunsets

&

morning’s auroral ambience

mirrored in

Autumn’s ethereal ember —

an infinite,

endearing

love,

rising

beyond the shores

of time

and tides,

perpetually

&

with fortitude:

the marvel

of her maternal presence

displayed in

a celestial

manifestion

of kindred bodies,

bound,

in one accord

&

serenaded

by the immortal

Moonlight Sonata.