ode to an autumn rosebud

A hint of smoke
fogs the garden
as fire spirits
have their last dance
on the ruins
of summer's decadent estates,
and lush green leaves
begin the colorful contortions
of their yearly diaspora

Other roses of the garden,
(presented in folds of floral perfection)
have seen the sweltering stir
of summer days,
and known the serene excitements
of moon-light, jazz,
and open mystic doors;
Even others have
been dried, pressed,
and deified in the houses

But this poem is not for them
but for a young one
just beginning his journey,
narrowly oping
his thorny arms to the world:
showing to man and sun
the majestic dark red
of the first edges
of his still retracted being

He hears the stories
of the others,
and knows the books of the Gods
and the burning bush:
Atlas, Orpheus, Kerouac,
Elliott, and Pound

But he's been tutored
until he wants to drown:
he turns the advice
into symphonic white sound,
and in the inspiration
of first sunlight,
sees the season
truly anew
as yet not as
Van Gogh or Picasso:
the glow and not the pathos
of brave new worlds