These autumn leaves, strange in spring,
Scorched brown, from the sun’s sting,
Flit under your eyes, across your cheeks.
Invisible against your skin, they hide
In plain sight, scattered on either side.
The winter wind, strange in spring,
Lifts a feather, slides over a wing
Behind you, resting on a shoulder.
Why can no one see it, where does it go?
In plain sight, it hides where no one knows.
This summer sun, strange in spring,
Its light glides; it’s just the thing,
To catch your hair, to make it shine,
What happens to those fleeting gold threads?
They remain, invisible, framing your head.
The Garth Brooks Dilemma.
11 years ago
