Autumn, for whom we write poetry

Autumn

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