Autumn

Autumn

Morning’s orange veil cloaks the countryside,

And scurrying winds play harpsichord with all falling leaves.

The old man sits in his mottled skin waiting

While faint rays of colored light stretch open the sky.

 

Vaguely, he remembers twenty years back, more or less,

When his boy disappeared beneath the roots of that

Withered maple over there at the bottom of the yard.

 

He remembers and stirs his mug,

An herbal tea for warming the brain.

 

It was so long ago, that first lava flow of pain,

So slow to fade. But now only a friendly sadness

Uncovering his years, a warm treasure held softly to his breast.

 

Soon, his voice echoes from the depths of his mug.

Soon, winter will come like a favored dawn,

And with any luck he’ll be gone

Down that rabbit hole of careless wonderment

Where souls join hands and hearts sing

The glory of night so bright

And his son right there by his side

Teaching him the artfulness of stripping hide

From his gleaming eye of wanting.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Richard Held]

Wow... What a haunting piece - ethereal and colorful. Thank you. Bravo.

[emmajoy]

Oh my, what a wonderful piece of writing. Somehow I felt like a privileged intruder looking onto a slow chain of photographs, each moving through time. There's a wistful almost grey feel to the poem and yet it's in no way ugly - in fact, the opposite, it's a keen observation of life around you but, the need to be with someone you love and miss.

'The old man sits in his mottled skin waiting ~ While faint rays of colored light stretch open the sky.'

what wonderful words, so explicit I can see them for real.

Thank you for sharing such thoughts .. you're a more than fine poet.