Of
Cycles and Ends
The drapes were gashes,
slits of white fabric
whirling from the oval frame,
tattered whips riding
the October chill
like a frantic stallion.
Through the pane
the trees were skeletal shafts,
jagged limbs stripped
of blooms — of life,
as a shriveled carpet of leaves
clung to the ground
like moss to a slick rock,
pleading for its life
as if the trees were God.
The sky churned
like an upset stomach
coiling intestinal shades
of charcoal and ash,
brewing winter's assailants
soon to douse the earth
with an ivory tinge
like dust from a red-eyed
angel's wand.
Copyright © 2002 Richard C. Williams
