When Everything Is Dying

 my ruby-throated heartsong will pour from the veins of orange leaves.

When autumn's ember-scented breath changes the late light of summer

into melted gold dusk,

and oak trees admit what they've hidden

under the long sun's green.

Then, might ears twist and hear my copper voice

in a wind-whisked crescendo.

Dancing a starlit ballet with these dead, quiet days

that fall from my hands

like foliage wept from branches