tornada? (read it anyways)? Memory


What is there in the gentle play of leaves
That vault and swirl like dancers, then spiral
Silently back down to earth; when they fall
The whole world seems to die before my eyes,
And when I smell their incense as they burn,
I am transported to another time,

A time when love and laughter in her eyes
Danced like the leaves, and on me they would fall
Like manna, or if I deserved not, burn
Like glowing embers. And now I spiral
Down as my thoughts traverse the vault of time
And in its book turn endlessly dry leaves.

Memory abhors a line, its spiral
Ever circling back; and its sad gyres burn
The tracks they trace yet deeper all the time.
Why do most of my ruminations fall
On holidays? We do not need the leaves
In the old table; there are fewer eyes

That dance in merriment before they fall
On some choice morsel right there all the time.
And now the simple thought of these things leaves
A tear where once was joy, makes my eyes burn
For what they cannot see - these mortal eyes
That saw your grace descend on a spiral

Staircase would gladly close, so much they burn
To once again possess you. Though memory leaves
The trace that’s like true aloe for my eyes,
That memory itself dissolves with time,
The soft ringlets of your hair, each spiral,
The way they’d play about your face and fall

All lost to the cruel ravages of time.
I cannot be the happy man who eyes
The world unjaundiced; my spirits spiral,
Brown and withered, and no thought of you leaves
Me far from valleys where the shadows fall
Or where the leaves of autumn endless burn.

O time, each one leaves,
My eyes burn as they spiral
Down, my spirits fall.
No thumbs down are from me; I have given everyone a thumbs up however!