the smell of leaves burning

Can a hole become art 
     to become not a hole but something else 

transformed
full & complete 
refashioned with found objects:

that silver monopoly dog
blue bandanas

the sharp cut of sorrow
cornfields & meadowlarked loss
    autumn hued & weaved with blood-orange thread
to shuttered gasps & ooo's of admiration
can a hole be not a hole
patched with time & tender & song to mend it's fibrous fragility
looming itself into sunset ribbons of amber richness
who am I to love so well

    yet so wrong 
but not wrong
more like that hole
strangely

   ironically
      comes
the startling realization that it has shifted
quickened -- sharp
as
the forecasted boulder snow
self lies in the punched surrender to the puppet masters demand
listening & dancing to the bubbled needs of others
steadfastly refusing to howl at the moon & shine a light into the need
rake the leaves reverently into the
Hole

revolution is where 
in the crumpled pages of secret whispers & timeless sureness
in the ability to recognize strength in weakness
      and in the turquoise gleam of happy hanging in a thiefed reel
fighting for a heart-path is a wicked & quixotic endeavor
tempered by the accepted--righteous is not always so
loneliness carves it's own mask
as the struggle & pull of need creates 

red 

welcome the rhythm of this night in
bits of story & stars
dance & celebrate the patched hole
gather up copper

bronze & scarlet-dragon leaves
fire it up
trust the light