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.

Advertisements

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.

A path covered in wildweeds

Days will walk down
A path covered in wildweeds
So it is impossible to see
Where they are going.

Autumnal

An Autumn day dawns

An autumn day dawns.
I am the autumn
And you are the dawn,
Hand in hand
Waving goodbye
To the last Days
Of sun.