Autumn Poem by Leslie Philibert

Autumn



Autumn is a frozen church
We wait at heavy doors
That smell of rust,

Not a Moon cold enough
To be called heartless
Or breathclouds of old steam

More an estuary of
Dumped mist afaid to ice,
The taste of wax on your lips

A frame of hair round a
Hatted face, our steps as slow
As if we must tread water,

You are ice and rain and
The first crystals and even
More than this, beside me.

Sunday, September 28, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: autumn
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
for Carl Sharpe
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