The shape of words in Autumn is different from other seasons;
remarks are brittle and dry, turning to dust on the tongue
deeply colourful in their death throes,
the skeletons of beautiful things picked clean by crows
a profusion of all things said and scribed,
the verses of Spring in full flower
overflow the beds of mouths and bowers of diction,
and are irresistible in their composition
Summer's statements are bold and bright,
shouting, posturing, declaring their sovereignty;
volatile adjectives incite consonants to riot,
to tussle with verbs for space and place on the palate
to Winter, obliterating the landscape of dialogue
with whitewashed canopies of packed expression;
no two words the same, intricate, delicate,
the last utterance on the final page of Thought's text, inviolate.
