the rooster crows at dawn

EARLY ARIA

Moss-green & rusty brown, the shades

of veritable November.

Carapace for a fire

of leathery hearts, when autumn fades –

hopelessly stained & cracked, like

little nations stewed

in sour grapes – each rude

philosopher of One-&-Many stuck

on stiff prongs of mutual destruction

(as if our differences

were so many instances

of envious violence).  Someone

disconsolate, like moody Hobo,

comes to his dead end

sans lover nor friend.

The bridge beckons, the river flow...

it’s then that her grey shadow

curves to be with him –

grace of the seraphim,

milk of galactic commingling Rio.

A yellow-black monarch skims south

like nature, figuring rebirth;

her beryl-fiddlehead of mirth

lifts Hobo to the vernal mouth –

where dark Sophia & the turtledove

gather in Providence again.

The rooster crows at dawn

on city walls... an early aria, up above.

11.14.16