O my Dear October,
How your immanent blight
Recalls my years in service
To Shiva…or was it Maya…
Never-to care, alas
One is to the other as both are to the same:
Instruments of soul dispatching from idle hosts unknown.
This is really a love letter
Chatting under evenings misty shadows.
Age is what surfaces most,
The droning of years oozing like some
Unstanchable wound. But
This is our nostalgia, our
Bucolic trundling across fields
Riddled with memories mines.
We end scarcely
Knowing more than otherwise—
Or so it seems staring down the
Bleeding October sky.
Umbriate Press Poetry 