Heather Primrose Reads Tim Buck
The melon shades of leaves
will soon rust and fall gently
to layers of rest and forgetting,
like sunken poems, unusual love,
and grave silence after the crows.
The black walnut tree trembles down
its mysterious spheres to sleep darkly,
to pulse with memory of heartwood.
Old roses are paling with grace
in this air of ruining tomorrows.
Autumn again, and all the years
twisting a garland of melancholy.