The Fat Woman's Ball

Come October mountain flanks
sing with the high ambers of summer,
and blush deep as old love.

Brimming with color
empty leaves can fall.

To cross the forest floor,
we crunch out a raucous trail
throwing echoes to the heart of the world,

and on crisp mornings
when giant elk surrender
we survive another winter.

Around and around
life folds into death
and comes back again.

Like a cat eyed marble
rolled between fingers and thumb

the season invites us in
to a fat woman's ball -

our grand tarantella
of harvest and flight

tangled with rainbows
swallowed by heaven
soon, breakfast of dreams.


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