by Louis Faber
… And yet
we cling to the fleeting sun
There is an infinite space
Around us, a massive void
into which universes tumble
and stars and planets are born.
Outside, the maple leaves
burning flame and crimson
spiral to the lawn, which
waits to receive them.
Autumn is the season
when the earth prepares to die
and it is left to us
to prepare the gravesite.
The albino squirrel stands
on the fence rail, defying
me to find my camera,
his latest nut husks
slowly staining the concrete
of the walk. And yet
we cling to the fleeting sun
as it traverses horizons
for winter brings nothing
and asks even less.
© Louis Faber
Louis Faber is a poet and writer living in Florida with his wife (a fellow poet) and their cat (their editor). His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Canada, Europe and India and in Cantos, The Poet (U.K.), Alchemy Spoon, Dreich (Scotland), Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Defenestration, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Pearl, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among others, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Find out more on anoldwriter.com.
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