A Writer's Isolation

The blossoming wind plays ring around the rosy
with the leaves of November under an exhausted sun.
Its breath creeps soundly about the grotto of my ears,
whispering a sonnet of mother earth's transfiguration from a
John Keats fall to a Robert Frost winter.
A corduroy coat wraps itself around my shoulders and my waist,
massaging my diminutive hairs that
attempt to extend themselves toward the wintertime reach.

The spiritual nip is present, but the physical nip new.

The trees oscillate to a song of omnipotence
as the wind croons the chorus of a winter's nip.
It is a desolate prowess that nurtures aesthetics
and emancipates men who are chained by dreams.
My radiating arms anxiously spread
in hopes that the world will accept my invitation to slow dance
to the song of life.
I anticipated disappointed,
and it didn't let me down.

I embrace the seasonal pendulum,
for it suits my poignant fluctuations well.
Condensate joy to precipitate pain,
To long for breath yet lust over sleep?
A romantic paradox . . .
The nip of November is ingested by my pen,
I write soundly, patiently;
Each leave dives from their branches like——
Violently ponder over what descriptions fit their twirls.


There is a sort of correlation between the congealing climate
and the sudden transitions I long for.
The unknowing beauty of such an environmental threnody
can only indicate that God encourages such bereavements.
I breathe in the lamentations carefully,
so that it may blacken my heart like frost-bite. . .
"All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath."
I arrogantly drown beneath an August horizon.