The Aid of Convention in Fall

The way of life, 
as rustles grass, 
with winds brushing past
and going places far away from us.

The expanse above doesn’t cease to grow, 
but blue to us, when we look above.
Clouds seldom set aside to offer light,
then seldom cast a veil, signaling rain.

The summer had passed, I thought
in the last days of August.
I turned away and walked off
when the crimson red plagued the sky
on the 29th.
Mute to those walking along,
distant to those that once claimed my side.
I too walked along, 
and went gentle into the night.

The slumber was long,
seldom I heard a fawn.
By dawn,
I had to reconcile with spring
and tell her about the loss that’d come to be.
It came from within, 
from the core that births the worst sins,
and creeds of men.

The month of all beginnings, 
passions, and long evenings…
Sweat on our shirts,
children coddled in mud,
and everything settling by dusk.
The imposition of the second wound came
before accustomation of the first.

The long reeds,
spanning across the valley,
never foraging the mercy of snow,
held back like us, in the confines of our home;
hiding scars wrought on land,
where long paths once ran,
and remnants of culture, and rites of some tribe,
which like the graves half-underground,
and abandoned burial grounds
sought refuge deeper in the mountains, 
buildings their forts on greater heights.