“Foretoken” by John Muro
Foretoken
The sun’s dragging the last
of its light like a tattered shawl
across the sky, brushing aside
day’s ash-blue air that’s nestled
in the spaces that sit between
the understory’s branches and
I can see how each leaf, for a
moment, is finely gilded, tail-
spun and lifted, displaying a
gift of color better suited to
a downfallen moon or paper
lanterns softly illuminated by
candlelight, at least until the
time of their fall and sweet
convulsion, as they settle back,
Pietà-still, into a fallacy of green
and then wondering, in their bright
stillness, just how much closer
we might be until the hour of their
decadent descent and breathless ruin.
Photo Credit: Staff