Her Lips
In early autumn maples start to take
On colors of the pyre, abandon green,
Hold out their limbs like Cranmer at the stake,
Their frantic gestures searching for a sheen
More desperate than innocence. A breath
Of chilly breezes mixes with the sun,
Prepares them for a frosty, shining death
More beautiful than April’s sticky run
Of leafbuds on the branch. Infernos of
Funereal loveliness sweep leaves, and tilt
Immortal reds (that poets use for love)
To flaring yellows far removed from guilt.
There’s orange sinlessness in suicides
Of all these forests’ ageing suttee brides.