Disciple of Autumn

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

Real Toads ~ Artistic Interpretations With Margaret ~ Washington, D.C.