My melancholy muse meditates, mulls without cease Rumors of demise, demesnes of decrease As fire-fingered freaks of evening flame Flare glory along the Catskill skyline's rock crease 5 And die to dithering greys, fisted blacks. A neighbor in the near-distance roasts Runt apples rumbled from the roof in a blaze Of sage gone to seed, weed trees and dry roots. The apples are sweet, and of sufficient tooth 10 To give them dreams of nectar and of ruth. Bear what dreams may come in spreading night And sleep the long hours inured to fright That comes to tell us nothing; nothing true. Two mood rings roll along the bedstand, blue.
From the collection "Supposing Roses"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.