POEM: On the Serengeti Plains of New England, Searching for El Dorado

I sit in the company of working class potatoes and flamboyant onions that are just so full of themselves amid grandmotherly faces of piebald gourds
there is a pride of cartoonish mums maned with purples, pinks and rusts
which makes these flowery man-eaters seem to growl.

They wince with every tendril-killing frost that coats shadows like white mold
bear witness to this nub of autumn as an oil slick of night seeps onto azure fields above.
The lost gold of conquistadors rolls off its table edges into a leaden dark.

Daylight falls without an ounce of grace unable to walk that flimsy scar horizon like a tightrope any longer.