September Sunset

 

is spilling gold through black leaves,

gilding the threads of spider webs,

skimming the bird-bath waters

like a stone of air,

leaving there

shimmers of bright metal,

 

comes marching like Carnival

through red September lilies,

switching them on like lamps:

they burn, their faces all on fire.

 

I try to scoop this hot gold in my hands,

splash it on my face and neck;

I would become pure ember,

glow like the golden treasure left in tombs.

 

Too late; the sun has shed its cargo,

and sunk below the trees;

black leaves

sing now from a deeper dark.