This striking day
is the last of the Mohicans
for the Indian Summer.
He sits on his calmness
with the Time Pipe
in his forested orifice,
and puffs out
almost-then-clogged-into-eyes
clouds.
Blind wind
makes the skin of trees
arid
and paints over
the green
sporadically
with autumn harmony’s brush.
Right on the corner
of ten straight mating nights,
amid
spiky sun
and widespread horizon,
the baldness of trees
shell be born.
Feel the gratitude
for soon-hibernated nature –
this is its way
to slow down
and smile…
before aching,
before building another-year-circle
around the tree-trunk,
and squeezing the heart
of breathless livelihood.

6 Серпня 2007