The Flood comes for us all.
         Inevitable storms long forecast. 
Dew drenched memories
Upon the grass of moonlit nights
         A twinge of regret…
The years change then fall.
         And I'm left to sort through the pile.
Should I:
         Frolic through the compilation;
         Collect and burn them;
  Or should I use the past as fertilizer for the present?
  To cultivate and grow.
  Furthering the future hopes
  Of what is yet to come.
I simply long for change.
         The direction of purpose.

A subtle incantation in the wind of the soul,
If harnessed,

  Will carry one
  Closer to that which we already know,
  To be our only true direction.
  Ancient guardians and old ghosts
  Mystical promises and gracious toasts…
                                      Guide me on my way once more.
© 2002 Kevin Clous


AUTUMN
KEVIN CLOUS
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