Ode to October (literally and metaphorically)

When season-end baskets and bowlsCradle final gleaning that tollsWith future gardens gathered in... When garden gourds are gathered inWhen woodland awning starts to thinWhen Jack Frost takes a predawn strollAcross each frond, pond, nook and knollWhen landscapes start to don the huesOf purple, umber, bronze and bluesWhen nature is like a lodestoneDrawing us from work to be doneWhen the wind’s kiss pinches and nipsEars, noses, chins, and fingertipsAnd sunrise skies are stark and sheerWe know October’s end is near When like a gush of waterfallsHearts bear a rush of madrigalsThat beg for brushes, ink and pageAnd yet no artwork can assuageThe bittersweetness of the senseOf bare feet shod with recompenseDriving the wearer of dues wildWith whispers of Forever’s ChildBecause for all that time does stealIt leaves behind the kind appealOf happiness’s eager joyAkin to a hungry schoolboy When a brisk broom nobody seesChases a brood of laughing leavesAcross the stubble-stippled leaOf summer’s silenced symphonyWhen apple orchards don the pallOf Bygone’s quiet, hallowed hallWhere voices danced, drifted and rangAs pickers bantered, jived and sangWhen market stands are heaped with fareThat busy, calloused hands put thereWhen harvest-bustle dwindles downTurning earth into a ghost-town When rustle-fell and footsteps mergeWhen want and wonder taunt and surgeWhen echoes stir the settled dustOf pretty, petalled wanderlustWhen joy and sorrow intertwineLike buds betrayed by brittle vineWhen golden tapers start to dimTo labyrinths of darkened limbAnd front porch lights dapple the duskLike warm welcomes against the brusqueAnd brooding, lowering of evesAwash with rain and wind-tossed leaves When little cakes and cups of teaAdapt an ache of luxuryAnd books, like patient, paper friendsWait, where winter will make amendsWhen season-end baskets and bowlsCradle final gleaning that tollsWith future gardens gathered inTo box, or bag, or crocks, or tinAs jar upon jar testifiesOf Bounty’s mercy-laden prizeAnd gold and green turns bare and brownAs Autumn lays its glory down When pots simmer with supper soupAnd contentment is like a troopOf hungry helpers warmed and fedWith soup and cheese and fresh baked breadWhen The Poet wrangles to rhymeA very precious sense of time...we ought to take to touch and tasteWhat none can keep yet none can hasteBut simply treasure as it rollsLike sea-song across hearts and soulsTo listen to its lyrics playedBefore its notes of color fade When Mother Nature claps her handsWith final no-nonsense demandsWe know October’s end is nearAh, time enough to shed a tearAfter the pangs of what must beBecome pictures in poetryAfter the hatches of the landAre battened down by a firm handTucking the town and country laneBeneath a downy counterpaneWhen hearths flicker, crackle and grinWhile winter softly closes in When, with the turning of the sodWe trust the providence of GodWho cups the crux of season-strainsIn law and order He maintainsIn the beauty that He designsIn the goodness that He refinesIn the perfection of the planAbove the ways and wiles of manThen, with the deaths that Autumn bringsWe do not fret the Yet of thingsBecause the Love that tolls time’s bellInstills hello in each farewell The appetite of hungry clocks Insists we put on shoes and socksInsists we turn the other cheekFor rebel-rousing rogues to tweakInsists we yield; futile to fightThe fortitude of day and nightInsists we learn how to let goOf No Returns that we love soInsists on pressing crease by creaseThe telltale signs of Autumn's LeaseInsists on teaching us to dressOur naked wants with thankfulness © Janet Martin When apple orchards don the pallOf Bygone’s quiet, hallowed hall..