Decaying leaves split my pores

Flowers blooming, like freedom calling.

Leaves call gently into the sky,

Thanking the heavens for its existence,

Plucked one by one by name

In a summoned silence.

 

We step through the brush,

Fires blazing in autumn all around

Landing by a mycelium ladder on a stump,

Romantic notions siphon under our feet

Channelling through living decay.

 

Purgatory is life,

Blinking with impressionist eyes.

Where destination is found in this bowl, encircling a cone of silence that runs--

Golden threads--

 

We close our eyes to breathe freeness,

To embrace the cartography on our lips,

Delineating the wood stumps like symphonic strings on a crescendo.