Father Time Contemplates Mass

The last gasp of autumn

Soughs off into rhythmic

Whining scraped from a dawn

Stretched taut as night's edge. 

The wind's teeth are chattering

Slow staccato passages

That beg for contrapuntal bass:

But winter is still foot-weary

Uneasy in its pipes:

You can hear the rustle

Of foxed blue-note scores,

Sense it tuning through assonance

To a timbre unmarred by reason.

At least this business of meter

Is nearing a close:

It's all I can do to keep my hands

Off the saxophone.

- David W. Mitchell

to David   /  to Moongate