Autumn Air

There, in a sea of
time-tossed exhaling,
longings are propelled,
high-flying like kites,
wind-washed and as pure
as polychrome streamers.

They flutter through a
cloud-dragon's jowls,
and fall, scattering
under bent branches.
No flame is ever lost
but leaves its mark on stone.

Reviews

[apennylate]

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Black marks on stone, multi-colored streams of pure flame... A thrilling ride of vocabulary and tight imagery that wound around my finger, then bent as if weighed down by a branch... Wonderful...