In October the pines ooze resin.
Lofty crows flit among rusty leaves.
Wisteria once so pleasant choke the burdened trellis,
their summer petals decomposing on a rusty gate.
From the branches of evergreens huddled lyrebirds
sing cantilenas, create their finest opus.
Below the smokey clouds my hands reach
to the heavens awaiting downy verses to fall
like feathers to my ears.
I remain unwritten, a journal of blank pages,
abandoned by a woman feigning nonchalance.
Today my eyes are a brooding storm,
shades of a deep night without a dawning.
In the forest a nightingale sings her song
somehow her soft refrain makes it easier to bear.