Sons of the Equinox

Green slips to red, to yellow, to brown
before it all comes fluttering down,
leaving nothing
behind but skeletons with empty
arms, perpetually asking, “Why?”
to the darkening sky.

Both my boys are autumn born,
sons of the Equinox,
always falling away 

& coming back, falling
away & coming back.

They first fell away in the fall of ‘93—

I gave them away, 

left abandoned—dead

mother, runaway bride—

no way to pay 

for their care;
I was an inadequate tree, 

Poe buried
in an unmarked grave, 

overgrown
with weeds, sucked

dry by mosquitoes.

They came back at eight,
left by nine, back by ten, again.
Battle after battle:
some won, some lost,
most simply drawn,
quartered.

& by twelve, I thought
I had won the war
against the callous world
& its cruel whore.

In high school, the older got caught
selling weed to feed 

his young gambling
habit. 

The younger's quest 

to always be the best
left him too good for me. 

Both ended fluttering 

away, one last time.

On occasion, they sprout
at my fingertips, their weight
pulling at me;
but I never expect them to hang
on. There is no point.
The Sons of the Equinox
always find new
reasons to leave.

**Written during Challenges for the Delusional at the Village Learning Place in Baltimore-September 22, 2012**