I Am the Only Means of Escape

On this planet where starlight turns pink,
I capture a fleet Kelley's lily and amber rose,
a butterfly bush, burned and bright,
under the green frond-fringed bluebell sky.

Each mud or brown moss step differs
for distance against the evaporated canvas
of heat and fog in long morning air.

Soon an alien August sun
brooks low enough, bounding glare,
to toll the further tread into autumn,
hinting that least winter gray night
is warmer than weak light.

I advance on the fastening frost,
my red maples turn brilliant crimson,
sweet birches golden yellow,
sourwoods turn brick red,
all the yellow buckeyes orange.