Among these browning blossoms, a revolution
stirs the surface of this stagnant water.
Or is it just the circle of my eyes?
There is no touch or whisper of a wind,
there is no movement in these dying leaves,
their stillness - weighted.
Every seep and current weighted
in weekly, monthly, yearly revolutions.
Can such prisoners ever leave,
or are they floaters, drowned by water
their flicker snuffed out by the wind?
Who can read these eyes?
Brimming with a multitude of eyes,
water with their whiteness weighted,
their stillness calls for the wind,
their pulchritude for revolutions.
None should fear to sink beneath the water
though their skin be thinner than leaves.
A blanket generation of dead leaves
rustles its crinkled lack of eyes
and hems around the very water
which fattened them till fully weighted,
then pried them off with a half revolution
as each stem snapped in the wind.
Fury of an autumn wind
shake these empty, helpless leaves,
rouse them in ghostly revolution,
a delight to every burning eye,
else they will stay forever weighted
and clog the brackish water.
Rumbling tumult of distant water
carried in the approaching wind.
We can’t have long to wait
for the bursting of banks and ripping of leaves,
when electric fires open their eyes
in the rain’s lash and the cyclone’s revolution.
Under the dead leaves,
beneath the stagnant water of your eyes,is there a revolution?