Autumn Reverie Poem by R.B. Gyle

Tiny birds flutter in decadent foliage.
Feathers ruffle flat carafes of chlorophyl.
I am every leaf that falls, slowly
swooping down like fallen angels
smitten by the wrath of their own
fleshly feelings.

There is a movement in the
undergrowth mobilizing to save
the world
or die rotting.

Malgret tout, their sons
will be here next spring,
and explode in colorful riots
bearing the banners and crowns
of their dreams and their riches.

I am collecting at the roots
of trees in free assembly
with dirt and detritus. Our
perfume smells of musk and
my je ne sais quoi
seeps in the soil
mixing with bones.

The birds beak is filled
with songs and insides
of insects. Intestines and
instincts harmoniously synching
will lead the way to the
rusty place
where all the hearts
of the world repose.