Beholding Hands? Poem by Mark Heathcote

What shadow consisting of love
Satellites the whole of the moon
Juxtaposes darkness in our rooms
Just to bloom, golden and furious.

What shadow consisting of love
Have we not touched - be holding hands?
…New England burns it devours us,
It's autumn glory, perennial, withstands.

Dissolving, into a billion golden birds
Each with a wing that reaches out
For the eternal; living green saplings words
that renders us, speechless, there-out.