by Marta T. Coppola
I rooted up the spurs of autumn
Watched the leaves, like fingers and tongues
Littered skins so unwilling to augur.
The wind blows through the bloom —
the sun itself — a ruse.
vigilante soil (the clay speaks!)
And so is eternity
roses fall to rust.
Copyright © 2009 by Marta T. Coppola