Early child born in Autumn’s
Extended reign of decay,
A long winter awaits.
You’ll only survive.
This shroud of being smothers you
Hiding the suffering
That speaks from the shapes
That you make.
The endless turn of your face.
Your search for concern,
To be returned where it’s safe.
What have we done
In turning away,
Accepting ourselves?
Have we defaced you?
Unwilling to be replaced by you.
and I’m guilty, too.
I’ve made no offerings
To the instance of you.
This endless autumn,
Skeleton harvest,
Keeps replacing you.
And I’m guilty, too.
Early child,
After you, we hope.
After you, the world will
Be as we hoped.
We are after you.
Early child,
Before you, we lived.
Heads of buzzards,
Red in the feast.
Enjoying the last deaths of Autumn
Before Winter’s stifling freeze.
Early child,
When you came to be,
We were supposed to hear echoes
Of Spring…
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