BY JOE BISICCHIA
Or forever hold your peek. See, see. There is no hiding.
To the narrow window I peek, and the autumnal view reflects
the world is running away from me. Rhyme and near rhyme
wrap words in failed sonnet. Witness the chime as leaves
dangle from trees. Lame as the soon sublime flake so numbered
in frost, I somehow easily meander. I fear I may be forgotten
in this unkind fall and silence of name. And what is mine?
There is so much in this, our shared glassed world to imitate
and perpetuate. But what proves to be genuine, and not fake?
Memory of a rose is a rose, and I find only words just human.
Wont for more, prime mine to grand words, to aggrandizement.
Loud advertisement descends silent as purple prose beeswaxed
in time. Lips of emptiness go silently mute. Mime takes away
the words, but souls indeed must speak. I know what I need.
See, I am not alone. The world’s volta is beyond my lone voice.
Yes, let it be. Fit my ear, for I want to hear leaves be leaves.
Find me deep in the wax where the line is taut and ready to ignite.
And yet, find me just as easily wherever there is light.
So it is that I am found and seen.
For the light extends and I am in its beam, next to everyone, all along.
And as heaven opens up all around us, life is miraculous.
Beyond the trees, beyond my bones,
I face my fear of falling leaves and finally allow myself to see the sky.
We stay still this flow, this falling leaf, and falling leaf,
this falling in love, long fallen, and falling again, never old.
As if so much goes ephemeral except us, ever unique,
we remain ever the same, like a new child, and creation begins.
As if always found goes love, despite whims of the breeze,
despite the fears of what runs cold, and sorrows
of the lonely lost in the fragile temporary.
So much leaves.
So much forever remains.