All brown, too red- Silent

Yesterday,

My mind fell, and dropped into autumn again.

I close my eyes– it's always autumn here

Red whistling, whittling away my Motion-Still.

Nothing to stir, too calm are the Trees who's arms curve in their naked shame.

Brittle are the dead that coat my clotted boots.

Sad is the muffled ground, drowning under their free fall.

Mass suffocation– as an Oak cries to winter. It's smite to steady these rustling screams.

All brown, too red, all weeping.