There is nothing that comes without a price. My Favorite Poet has found his Love, and their happiness is a wondrous thing to behold. His Muse, however, dwelt more in sorrow, and the presence of so much joy seems to have driven it away. For those of you who have asked about his work, here is a sample from earlier years. It seems appropriate for the coming of another seasonal cycle. Be well.
when the air begins to crisp
with brittle chill and cracking wind
and the months roll into double digits,
when morning sun finds windows rimmed
with frost sketched out by icy pens,
(if, that is, there’s a morning sun to find)
and the trees weep their fiery leaves
to lay bare black branches, bone defined
against a low and dozing sky, often more soggy
than the ground that changes costume,
mud, now ice, now icy mud,
and emits a cloying rot perfume,
when the light surrenders early,
night sacks erstwhile afternoon,
when the mercury is fleeing
into its tiny glass balloon,
winter’s bounding towards us,
shaggy cold and steaming breath.
we humans shamble through the freeze;
more clever creatures play at death.