Clock of Dead-Stop

Then with one finger

I wind back the world;

a time-piece of seasons.

I stop at Autumn.

Here, even ghosts of snow

can play the part of children

waking beneath costumed trees

of eternal leaves cast gold,

characters of crimson

cued in wings,

the stage falls dark-

until I introduce the moon.

I cannot think her light

white enough

to believe my own illusion.

Yet, when I move my mind too close,

tomorrow's shadows creep across her face.

(This must be changed.)

Black as an endless catwalk for my feet

my voice reaches,

teaching stars a song of harvest

to accompany each night's first frost.

Below; every owl's head turns once in choreographed directive,

my vision of perpetual listening

not yet in unison with life's cessation.

I block the river's movements

with my current's past.

(It can't be changed.)