The comfort of autumn
Sweeps slowly in
Degree by degree,
Sienna to gold.
Vine Maple’s red fire.
Blaze of Sweetgum,
Raywood Ash.
The once glorious sky
Seems unexciting now
Compared to these
Lava-bright skeletons.
       
       
A dewy chill rides
The morning air
Dressing our glad houses
In sparkling stillness;
An uncanny quiet laid
Full of Earth noises rustling,
Yet peaceful as a lullaby.
       
       
With every rush of wind,
Crinkled leaves detach from
Trees ready for retreat.
Umber flakes wrestle downwind
To scramble our hair and
Hide in the loose weave of
Our cozy wool sweaters.
A strange sprinkling of
Found objects
We gather.
       
       
Autumn woos us into a
Rustic dormancy with
Scented musk of pine
And chimney smoke.
We are lured by the
Human inclination to
Curl inside ourselves
In an act of
Anonymous surrender
Blanketed by a Charcoal sky.
       
       
Walking underneath trees of
Burnt clove, magenta hue
Arcing elegantly
Across city streets
(A seamless bridge
Season to season),
We forsake propriety
In favor of kicking, sprinting
And shuffling noisily through
Piles of gilded fringe,
Blinded by ginger aswirl.
Our stride lengthens
In the coolness as
We breathe away the
Summer heat that has
Collected in our skins.
As evening quickens, our
Reddish glow turns wan;
We are ready for a long,
Turmoil-less drowse.
       
       
Held-in close
Under autumn’s canopy
Fragile brilliance,
We are reminded that
Everything must be
Let go of
For newness
To begin again.
Every freshness that
Awaits us in springtime
(Joy, passion, giddy mirth)
Moves through fissures in the
Architecture of our psyches,
Detecting vulnerable strata.
Premonitions await genesis
In the hollow space
To germinate unbeknownst
While catapulting our fears
Far enough away so that
We no longer believe them.
       
       
But first, under
Cinnamon leaves
We sleep.
       
         
     
_______
(C) 2013