Of Paling Autumn-tide...
Tucked between stunning sunrises and sunsetsa week of busy, beautiful autumn days and fall foliage farewellswhirled away...
Of senses steeped in heavens heaped with bottomless azureOf hunger held where moments meld to moments like felled leavesof awesome blaze of autumn days, no awed gaze can secureof joy and grief as leaf-by-leaf earth gathers final sheaves
of happiness and loneliness in autumn’s madrigalof dappled skies as lullabies are loosened from the limbof mellow, yellow bliss in the felicity of fallof landscapes glossed with leaves of frost as lofty tapers dim
of garnet, gold, and umber soldering of farewell’s kissof tattered music sheets scattered like fleets on leaf-tossed seasof vain attempt to circumvent the haste of What Yet Isof precious days soon blazoning a maze of memories
of hearts beguiled by art run wild in unrivaled releaseof brooding blues and dazzling hues in myriad shades of redof purple hills as morning spills its molten masterpieceof worship’s woo as winds undo bronze buttons overhead
of pure delight footloose, in spite of ties that snare and bindof heartstrings caught in every thought besotted by fall’s bow’rof senses keened by tresses weaned, to what is soon behindof season spent and reason bent with remnants of lent flow’r
of wisdom earned by lessons learned of what no one can stayof now and here hinged to a sphere of ages out of reachof you and I beneath a vault of sky, crowning todayof urge and whim soft burgeoning with what remains to teach
of ‘love-you-so’ and letting go and ‘oh-don’t-leave-me-yet’of weathering the tethering of dusk-bathed countrysideof cherishing the precious perishing leaf-pirouetteof ships that sail upon a vale of paling autumn-tide
of glint and glance of dizzy dance of leaves across the yardof taking stock of tick and tock’s inevitable claimof shadows thinned by a cold wind raking a boulevardof wooden wicks like candlesticks snuffed of life’s little flame
of scarves of smoke draped on an ochre ambience of deathof days undone by ways common to man since Time was spunof a rag quilt, pieced, stitched and spilt with every sacred breathof silver ilk, like milkweed silk snagged on a ray of sun
© Janet Martin