AN ODE TO AN AUTUMN AMONG THE BIRCHES

BENYA PYATSKI

It’s autumn among the birches, or so I’m told—
I haven’t yet seen the leaves turn and fall.
It’s cold, but I missed the waves of
pink,
brown,
yellow,
red,
that should’ve come crashing down all over me.
If the leaves haven’t yet turned, then there’s still time—
time to prepare for my long, dark slumber
in the bowels of the caves of my daydreams.
Time to sing
to dance,
to cry,
before the eternal dark of night.
Autumn among the birches reminds me that time is all fleeting after
the long, warm bliss of summer.
Autumn among the birches gives me a new lease on life:
With every layer I put on—
With every breath of cold air—

A gift I could never repay.
It was in dreams that I danced in my garden—for my awe may cloud me.
But beauty may bloom: bitter dandelions—for she opened herself to me, yet her name I did not know,
as death’s breath chanted nevermore—for the fields are under the watch of storms.
From kisses delirious,
to faces frantic—
elaborate are dreams;
wandering thoughts—
Pounding sleep,
lovely language.
Sometimes, in rest,
I prick myself—
I can’t control me.
And it’s funny—I imagine she can’t too.