To Autumn

You knew it was coming to an end,
their vast empire of gold and marble columns,
and you said nothing, piece of shit.
Was it jealousy? Did your yellowing leaves
not compare to some sparkling riches?
Of course they compared! They’re like madmen
rushing through the corridors of an equally mad house.
Or did you not have the time, busy as you were
with your vast changes, your rows of stately
decomposing trees, that you couldn’t
stop for one second
and whisper it
in some rush of dried leaves
or some river’s babbling,
the water grey because it was about to freeze,
the riverbank on fire with the setting sun …
And if you didn’t inform them
of their conflagration to come,
then what hope do I have?
I asked aloud
to the encroaching night
who meanwhile was descending the trees
like an actress stepping down a steep staircase
wrapping herself in her fog-colored coat,
wringing her hands
like she was planning a murder.