Fighting Autumnal Fires...A Well Crafted, Worth While Read Poem by John Tansey

Autumn has rounded again
for the thirty-second year of my life
and still,
I cannot comprehend fully
its passion, nor ingest, viscerally,
the flavor of its sweet pungency passing.

Too overwhelmed by its extract of colors
bleeding in my eyes,
like the red corpuscles of leaves,
their demand on the present
to be devoured whole
or not at all,

I rush inside
past the burning trees
to burrow, predisposed
in the tragic logic of passing time.

Never in the right mood
nor frame of mind,
to sit and sift the air
or glean, through my pours,
the autumnal breeze,

Like birds fleeing south
when the first tree turns,
I let it go
for the wake that it is
to remember better
upon observance of the day
through the urn of later years.

In fact, I fear the feeling less
with each passing
of Autumn through the years,
so much that I scrawl
this expression
with this metaphor
for how fleeting splendor is
as to egress from these flames
we should, as martyrs, clearly enter in.