The Killing Season

is upon us now.
The need for blood
stalks
every turning leaf,

Ragweed drooping
in sagging fields
at sunset.
A morning calm

is no match for lust
pounding
in a bloody heart.
It seems natural

this way we try
to master ourselves.
Autumn ritual
prepares

for winter – Sycamores
blush white,
Oaks redden,
streams coil

around sandy stone.
All of us feel
Time slipping.
For us Time

can do little more
than point
to December
that longest day

when thirst
is finally quenched
and full bellies
dream

of spring
budding again,
somehow,
from depths unknown.