Arched passageway of vaulted ancient arms splashed with yellow, orange, red, green, fawn, black. Gold leaf drops to the ground and heaps in crannies, pungent with earth, portending of the coming white death. The approaching darkness not sadness but icy isolation and crystalline beauty -- fragile and elusive. Thus, in desperation and smitten with a lovehate for fall, I write the poetry I hate to produce a September post.
a smattering of brain droppings from a self-styled writer