the roses of Fall

the harvest old hand
of the reaper's scythe
slides like a glacier round
the clock of 21st century life...
tolling its cheated hours
throughout the labyrinthian hospital
where infants charge like crying bulls
into the breathing arena
and the old and sick out like
pampered Prometheuses
eating chicken pot pie, fire orange jello,
and tasty green beans crisp as a Cyclop's eye

outside,
the wolfish wind howls frosty ballads
persuading flesh and blood
to take shelter under dull bone,
to dry the mortal coat by
the fire of Hades...
the black-dressed ladies to their painting
the men to contemplating chess

yet even after the plums of Summer,
there come the roses of Fall
shows of pink and red
set against the wispy cloud sky
the electricity of struggle
the melody of sighs...
and though roses go to icy snows
the bush survives
the bush survives