An autumnal poem from yesteryear…
I watch while the last of the summer leaves
the last of the summer leaves,
cornered by color, bullied by wind,
pushed from their tenuous
one-finger perches. Dangling
from hope, they yet cling to what was.
To what can never be again.
Buttressed now by stealth and stain,
the trees hold their breath and, in bloated hues,
leave behind what could never have been kept.
The molten days of August, now
Eastward creeping, cannot match
the closer dawn of winter’s darker agenda.
Change waits for no one.
Our frightened but fawning fraternity,
grips the once-dangling inside jokes.
But our song-sick companionship, bends
to sight and chance and change.
Beyond the clutch and ken of
drowning dreams, old stories, made young
again in the telling, sleep in
the quiet choirs of shared experience.
Love, always trumpeting her own exploits,
is writ larger against the dim and shrinking page.
Huddling for warmth against the inevitability
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