Autumnus

Lips linger on
the velvet sex
of a goddess in the grass
who blushes as the last of
her petals sail by on the breeze.

A steel-colored steam
steals across the marble
of a far-off moon that seems to
throb in the night sky
as starlight dances upon it.

I wonder if the goddess can see me
making red-light poetry
of the one moment
of intimacy
she has allowed herself in this season of wither.

I wonder if
she wishes upon me
a brown prairie
in the summer sun,
a river of dust.

The bloom on the vine
that is my wife and me
entwined
came not by the goddess’ hand,
but by the machinations of
Hephaestus at his anvil
(or some demigod descendant),
so I wonder if we are safe
from her wrath. I wonder:
could she make our blossom wither
if she wanted to?