The Month of Dying Beauty
The month of dying beauty made of leaves
That bleed with scarlet, crimson, and the flash
Of orange, hurtful yellows and bright sheaves
Of golden, sickled hay revealed a gash.
A wound in present time was opened by
My finding of a cache of things from you.
No, not from you . . . from me when I was high
On love. Slow boomeranging stings from you
Are what the cache contained. Each postcard, card,
And letter I had sent–and you returned
When termination of that love, so hard
Was finished–these presents are that you spurned
(Though gently). Two intrepid hands now lift
Each item that recovered heart must sift.