1971
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
I feel so much
Like a shriveling leaf
Tied to the oak
With a slender stem
Waiting so cautiously
For the sweeping wind
To carry me from my tree.
Here I wave
Like a dying flag unfurled
With the red of Autumn
And the red of victory
Curdling among the clay on the ground
Where I shall make my resting place
With the next wind.
It blows the cinders
Like erratic romeos
Courting the blue with their dust
The wind comes blowing
Past my ears
And the slender thread that holds me
Prepares to sever.
I am sate to discover
That the wind has stopped
And though my life still
Hanging by the slivers of tentacles
Grasping with uncertain grip
I am positive that come the blow
Next I will decapitate.
And here it is
Like a whirling gusto
Sweeping the mountains down
And gathering hills on the plain
And splitting past my meagerness
Slicing ever so valiantly
Through my last remaining string.
So I fall
Like a shriveled leaf
Waiting to die
And I cannot come to the morning
Touching face down in the clay
My autumn red becomes a brown
My softness comes a crackle.
I shrivel moreover
Scattering my ashes to the wind
And it carries past my problems
The essence of my life.
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri
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