This striking day
is the last of mohicans
for the Indian Summer.
He sits on his calmness
with the time-peace-pipe-tomahawk
in his forested orifice,
and puffs out
almost-then-clogged-into-eyes
clouds.
The blindness of wind
makes the skin of trees
arid
and paints over
the green
sporadically
with autumn harmony's brush.
Right on the corner
of ten straight mating nights,
amid
spiky sun
and widespread horizon,
the baldness of trees
shall be born.
Feel the gratitude
for soon-hibernated nature –
this is its way
to slow down
a smile...
before aching,
before building another-year-circle
around a tree-trunk,
and squeezing the heart
of breathless livelihood.

6 August 2007

Copyright ©2007 Iouri Lazirko