When death demands its due
let me die as the death of autumn.
She doesn’t go quietly or dimly.
The north wind tears at her limbs,
but she bends without breaking.
With glory stolen from the sun
she drops leaves of red and gold
on shorter days gathered on her doorstep.
She is harvest, thanksgiving, the comforter
to spirits walking the valley of mortality.
I want to be a disciple of autumn,
spread her gospel of riotous dying.
My flesh one day will succumb
to the reaper, but my spirit will join
the soil of another soul’s evolution.
©Susie Clevenger 2015