Last Days

Things are
    changing; things are starting to
        spin, snap, fly off into
            the blue sleeve of the long
                afternoon. Oh and ooh
come whistling out of the perished mouth
    of the grass, as things
turn soft, boil back
into substance and hue. As everything,
        forgetting its own enchantment, whispers:
            I too love oblivion why not it is full
                of second chances. Now,
hiss the bright curls of the leaves. Now!
    booms the muscle of the wind.