Saturday, October 27, 2012

Autumn, for whom we write poetry


We love her, as the Greeks who watched tragedy
Mesmerized, waiting for inner cleansing.
We remember her spring, bright and heady,
Her pregnant flourishing and wanton summer.
Now comes the end, a long and lovely end.
She stands upon her stage confused, transfixed,
Losing, losing. Each time she shakes slightly
Distressed, a million leaves rustle to her feet.
‘Ah!’ we whisper. ‘See how she dies!’
We love her, as the Greeks who require
Seventy rehearsals of death before their own.
The end falls on a darkling world, yet she stands.
‘Ah!’ we murmur. ‘How her beauty glows golden!’

poem copyrighted by the author

1 comment:

  1. Well said! Our trees are all bare now.
    Beautiful fall picture.


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