The autumnal storms of time strip ideas
From my imagination like leaves from
A tree, which I shed on paper as tears
Of ink for roaming eyes to walk upon,
And in the rustling of thoughts grasp a vein
Of nature, which has waited for my pen
Language, books, paper before it attained
All that’s necessary to be fallen.
If there were a new season in the year
It would come after autumn’s collections
Of ideas and before winter’s ice-clear
Winds and with it would come new emotions.
Anemophilous dreams swaddled in lace
Possessing no time and causing no haste.