nine

thinnest veil of delusion,

marbled at the face
of transition—

November’s blood,
silent supper
of aestival bounty.

even as everything
that sustains us is passing—

embrace change
of season;

praise fire,
surrounded by calm
in leftover dark days
of comfort.

spiced-up, rolled,
striped bark
in the beaks
of cinnamon birds
carves all the saints
next door, striving
of faith,

becoming
what we believe,
how we live
in the brevity
of breath—

nine. nine. nine.

constant
pondering
of impermanence.