67 November (or Fall’s Gash is Gold-Vermillion) by Savannah Battle Fall forest-feathers flash and flame And fallow-fast my bristling summer’s breath. Brash sugar-maple blazes bold, Gold crowning rooted sage’s head As an eagle’s balding mane— Fallen old. Likewise, tongues of fire flicker high And, captivating, crackle like an iris round, Licking at the edges of an inky, quilted sky. Each, once reached its zenith, hits the ground; Or floating, crested sparks spiral-slide Down, and as downy wilt, Dust eats dying rust. But quenched embers in this apple-eye, Which flashes, flares, flaps and, waxing, wanes, Make no shoddy sham of beauty’s blazoning! Unburnish, molt; as waterfowl plowing waves Buoy back, the light that leaves from high To reside within is vision; Expiring breath’s a spire Whose unsnuffed Sire bellows, “Risen!”
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