The Four Humours
Catch the last forlorn leaves falling. Watch them
settle beneath your feet. There are murmurs of small
lives ending and the hum of worms burrowing their way,
ingesting the worn machinery of autumn. The moss bristles
with waterless cold, the dark frost is readable
like tea leaves – everything exhaling.
The white that fills an absence of dank-wood
and descant, that crawls and flutters its way
across the transparency of stifled thought – consider
that this is the world unpainted and raw, everything
numbed and stifled. The wind has eyes, the frozen
water, a throat.
The bleeding remnant of what has past steals
its way rootward, injects itself into the unfurling cells
bent towards the heat. Lie on the ground, cover your face
with a verdant mask; your emails unanswered, your letters
composting in the box. Your sanguine questions
trickle down to feed the unfamiliar shadows,
the natural order of things.
Here, faced with the sun, the challenge
to the rhythm of one foot after the other, you
deepen, darken, stop calling home, hold
the wrists of strangers and stir to their pulse.