The piper sings an autumn song of afternoon, sweet as breeze  swirling through the twines of trees. Spinning as the wind's spirit whistles  invisible among downtown days  of lunch hours, rush hours and caffiene.  He whistles in streets and in spinning leaves, and falling in sun, and laying in shade  the piper rises from your grief.  And turn your crying eye.  The piper fades.

Let one tear fall dear waitress,
princess of your crying eye.
Let the piper fool you once or twice.
You who cannot look on him, lure him in. 
The Autumn wind is ochre, dim 
and delicate and sad, a bit. The piper swims 
within the salt of your one fresh tear.
 
 

The piper of your circling year 
where rain falls and spring brings 
the clown around you, in the air, in the wind and
wherever your eye may turn the wind.
With your heartbeat sing
of sunshine and shade and all
the downtown brick and day, and all
the flowers dead in flower beds and hours of the clock,
sing of newspapers blowing and cashiers ringing 
and socks that stink and twinkling stars.
All the things and things that aren't.

And with every ending start
your glistening wondering eye and walk.
For the piper do an Autumn dance 
along the avenue. Kick the colored leaves
that lay in corners of gutters. Kick them.
Spread them out into the street and know
the piper lingers, singing in you. 

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