There is little
This autumn depicts
But the colors
Of once living
Memories

And their metaphors
Painted with branches
Whose leaves
Can elude
Better words

No bedroom sill
Ever glimpsed
Or inspired
Once
Proving distance

Between what hope
Remains waiting
Very near
Where its palette
Resides

Using death
As our outdoor brush
Speaking tongues
Like flames
Too indignant

Along broken twigs
Lining sidewalks
Over shoes
Which tread
Fallen gold

Showing landscapes
Richer from pain
Than windows
Closed
Fearing freedom

Expressed by God
Every season
When martyrdom
Breathes
Vivid ash

On desperate winds
Creeping in
Through glass
Left cracked
Begging nature

For one stray hue
Felt against us
Touching up
Each soul
Left behind.

• J. Pigno