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
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.