This is the heart of melancholy

A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.

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Into the mystery

The autumnal quiet
When all that’s left
Are pine needles and
A defenseless barren moor.
And the inflamed sky walks
Among pines, leaving
Bloody footprints among
Thorns. But I
Do not fear the quiet,
I do not need to hurry
Before dusk. I willingly
Poke holes
In my heart to let in
The night.

Where you hide your words

In leafy shadows
Where you hide your words
From the sun –
Evasive like the feathers of sparrows
In snow-winds,
Without knowing how a mute
Tender moon climbs into your eyes.
There is the hollow red blood
Of dying autumn –
An imploded loneliness
Where I sense you:
Your heart muscles and your
Stiff forest of nerves.
Your stone cold words
Hesitantly screaming
In vein for something
That was always yours:
My forgiveness.

Softening

It was strange to see you
In these quiet days
Softening
Like the sun
In autumn.
Leaning into the
Growing wild
Like a shy Foehn wind
Curving charmingly
into the woods.
But I guess it happens
To all of us when we,
Like the golden dawn
Folding away the last
Remains of night,
Outgrow our dreams
And fold our ordinarity
Away.