We mustn’t keep the lovers too long, or the mourner from the grave. We mustn’t end the song too soon nor ever unchain the slave. The cat is purring by the fire while we listen to the liar. There’s nothing that cannot be done that cannot be undone. The thoughts are loose and floating now, and rhyme replaced reason. The pattern’s forming something new that’s good within a season. But Autumnal fruit will rot if unpreserved—and in the future, what will we deserve? Pour out the summer wine when winter snow descends and tell anew the ancient tale again.
Loose Thoughts
Tale Told 