Raking clouds in autumn before
the first winter steps engage the snow fall.
In anticipation of the final turn,
the call is made
to the stream and undercurrent waters
to rest beneath the tiles of leaves.

The north polarizes the thin layer
of warmth as the butterfly surrenders
its wings to the unknown battle,
heeded by moths and flying knives.

Long ago, stood tall, the bravado
and faux posturing,
fifty one jokers and one ace,
against the formidable elements of reason
and logic, into a painted cornea,
disguising itself rather than being captured
and imprinting the surface of the mirror.

Never to touch
or walk behind the sun.
Quibble in the context to interpret
the meaning of a smiling face
as the tears cascade down
into an open envelope
with no sender or recipient address.

Matter matters not to itself,
value values less to the self,
fear fears not the night,
but the man who has four shadows
when only one light is shun
in his direction.

DirkWojtczack
The Winter of Autumn