Adoration

I adore the figure of
clouds into autumn's greyout,
that season where all is preserved
from the slights of rainfall,
and the hillside-flowered grapes tend to fall
in the hands of men just a few days
too soon.

Calmly under foliage – her
clothes an universe of their own,
that smirk which I always thought
expressed malcelated concern
(like I cared) – she inhales the
autumn laughter concert, stirring
uneasy in her bed of three months:
for now, I can do little but adore
the subtlety of her precarious position.

Humus – the marrow of the land – rustles
of a myriad small creatures, guests uninvited
but welcome to our little tea party of two:
grapes find their way to the basket where
just a tiny crust of earth is always to be
found – as if the engagement of high and low
was, somewhat, inevitable – lingering, from the
remains of disappearing birds' corpses
to the back of men's primordial minds.

I should save adoration, for
there may be time when it's not
right – her flesh not so fair,
the will to crawl under autumn leaves
seeking affirmation. Then, I might
want to be made of breath
instead of soil.