Autumn Air...

I've seen the wind blow life

into the lungs of falling leaves

that dance their dizzied dance

while parting from their trees

and arriving in the austere embrace

of autumn's dying breaths

which cannot speak or sing much more

for winter sighs are soon to mute them

as they have each dying year before

I've heard the echoes of that silence

which is hushed unto itself

and is only whispered in breathless whispers,

hiding like shadows under stagnant sounds

which hang above their secret selves

but are buried by such senseless screams

that keep their secret words unheard

or mangled in the cryptic cries

of incessant, screaming birds

Yet in the autumn air, men speak

their words of lifeless, thoughtless breaths, 

and seek to suck, and spew, and stain some sounds

which waft weak against those wandering winds

Those winds that move from all we've found

to things beyond our bounds and back again

The autumn airs are all immortal ushers here

for they cannot die, nor live, nor care

but all our life, and death, and hope

are carried by these airs

in ways no eyes can stare to see

but the blind will find in there

With eyes wide shut and soul ripped open

to feel what can't be sensed

the autumn airs are swift to sweep me

from the fury of my summer's fire-storms

to the winter where my final forms

are cleared of all their fragile, dying filth

which cannot live nor keep me warm

For the autumn airs are spirit-filters

removing mindless chaff from stronger strains

of more resilient virtues, 

which autumn airs will see return

when greater harvest grains

are prepared to be reborn

Chill my soul until it shivers

unto its final, flinching twitch

dry my skin to life's last quivers

when there's nothing left of me to itch

and sweep it all away dear winds

to reveal the only substance left

And then receive that final grain or word

upon my finest autumn breath

that it may give some life to falling, dancing leaves

and keep that silence from withering alone

And 'though so much will be left to grieve

there'll be far more waiting to be grown

For the autumn airs are our immortal ushers here

and they cannot die, nor live, nor care

but all our life, and death, and hope

are carried by these airs

in ways our eyes won't stare to see

but may find sparkling in the glare

as the light leaves 'till it returns

on these immortal, autumn airs