Old and worn is our plumage
None too bright and none too fresh
We have traveled great distances
Standing like snakes in a daze
Our inner light is dimming
Held up only by will
We could collapse anytime
Summer turns to fall
And day to night
The witch's moon hangs low
A distant smell
Of burning wood and dying leaves
Creates a tear
An opening
Where fingers protrude
Gripping and ripping to get out
We are born
Fresh plumage
A light in our eyes
And the sun in the sky
As we sit under the hues of fall
Turning thoughts into colors.
C.R. Blazo
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/balsam/
