All the flags of summer have fluttered down--
complete surrender strewn across the yard--
oak-fingers, twigs of maple on the ground,
bushes limp as rags, roots disinterred.
But still the wind thrashes the beech tree's head,
shakes trunks of oaks like flowers in its whistling hand.
This is no seasonal seed-fest of the dead,
no storing up of graves to rise again.
All night I lie, listening to its roar.
It wants my life! It wants this body, torn
to shreds, this mind and its memories strewn
like dried-up pods, burst, shaken on the air.
It wants the total end of total war--
day's end, world's end, the winking out of stars.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie