Come, the scythes chatter

as they harvest gold,

and the late Fall light

shadows the Virgin

in the alcove.


For the world to be stricken

as the November landscape;

to give up its color

and stand naked,



They are dark,

these hallways

of humanity.


A voice asks:

What have we done to our children?


New legends,

like a red sunflower,


come to fill our gardens,

our streets,

our doorways

with submission.


And all day, the young girls

smoking and talking,

laughing and smoking

as if smoking

could lessen

the weight of love.