Tag Archives: Autumn

The Elm, the Dusk, and the Nightingale

Day recoils in silence. Autumn’s warmth gives way to dusk.
Beneath this meadow’s elm I pause, released in freedom from the husk of what this life’s become.
Summer wanes in crescent waves shaped to crash on winter’s shore,
haunting sweeter memories, from here within my open door as soul reflects the sum.

Golden sparks of eyelash glint through whispers of their closing,
that as the long rays reach for me, this tired mind retreats in dozing, beneath an ochre sky.
Subtle breezes, hushed and curved, kiss wisps of hair in amber glint,
draws an easy charcoaled line around this space where pausing’s spent, shyly asking “why?”

This gift for quiet passing, this time where I belong,
is all my heart is asking, heaving sighs in weary song, as praying just to stay.
Suspended weightless, bathed in dusk, the nightingale decries her mate,
comes to me on rush of wings to ease my passing state, till echoed light drifts grey.

Till darkness does enfold me, till crickets warn the length of night,
I wake to find my lonely peace draped o’er my arms in sparkled light retrieved from evening’s dawn.
Now calmly through the lea I stroll, pausing, counting, dew’s sweet scent,
toward home and bed my steps oblige, emptied in the moment’s spent and carried on her song.

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Filed under Autumn, Dreams, Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Procession (November Geese)

Stretched across a steel grey sky,
suspended, held in motion,
November’s “V” shaped lines of peace,
eternal, together, broken.
Whispered through the firmament,
a rustled hush of wings,
purposed rowing, stroking home,
calmly metered autumn dreams.

Harvest stubble left to fields
in gently woven tawny rows,
counts the lea twixt bearded forests,
passing o’er the few perched crows
who claim a bleacher fence post,
chatting, calling kind farewells,
while overhead the gaggle moves
in steady flow, within the swells.

Tomorrow comes first snowfall,
its scent betrayed to naked fields,
where subtle breezes carry hopes
of winter’s coming, autumn’s yield.

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Autumnal Equinox (a dream)

Disappearing in a haze of dusk, evening barters with a lingered musk of autumn’s creeping, burgeoned hope, early setting sun just lopes effortless toward the horizon.

Quiet calm throughout these woods, grants a peace to what I would, or should endeavor for my rest, yawning pleasures bring the best of what such dreams might lean on.

Steady turning, shadows fade, to echoed angels in the shade where once my summer’s heat escaped, to feel the cooling taste of grapes, in tiny luscious nectars.

Now just stretching leaves and vines, along the fence, defending signs that summer’s never out of reach, but autumn’s hold on summer breached the failing season’s vector.

My eyes grow heavy, my body, rest, and to the day I give my best to hold on just an hour more, but calmly find I’m nodding off in silent sweeps of evening’s thought that bends my head toward the floor.

So in peaceful sacrifice, surrender comes to be my wife and guide me to an early bed, where calmly call the cricket’s stead, to sleep and dream once more.

Autumn comes in subtle shades where summer’s scent is gently played to perfumes of a sweeter musk, time and aging, so I trust, will call me home to sleep.

That there upon my wakening, cooling sun and shape of things that beckon kind a hint of fall, bring to me another call of years still yet to keep.

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Autumn Hint

Moments dance in brittle waves, sparks between the autumn leaves, staining soft the shadowed hints of summer’s slow goodbye.

Dusk defines this edge in time, a poignant blush against the thread of season’s change, such sad lament, soft rose in deeper shadow hides.

Focus fades, day succumbs, autumn’s early eve draws cool, wraps a hint between the stars, appearing one or two.

Pull the night shade lastly, here, strain thine eyes to find the lines, hidden midst the whispered hush, summer’s secret stretched o’er time.

Clinging to the eloquent, flagging in the memory, drifting in the season spent, dreaming toward the one to be.

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It Calls Me

It calls me…
Finely focused mid-day autumn sonnet pulling deep from in my stuttered silence. Haunting me in summer’s wake, diffused, yet burnished real, to form the present in the musk of its decay.
It calls me…

The road beckons, “Follow”. Weary bones seduced, surrender to the calling of horizon’s haze. I feel Georgia. Georgia in June! A far cry from the wintered edge of this Rocky Mountain aspen glen.

What purpose does this longing hold? What ravels ‘tween the whispers sold? That from this alpine meadow’s gape I press the long thin lines, escape?

It calls me…
Leaves me sore in wanton’s trust, leaves me drunk in wanderlust but aye, alas have neither means nor hope. November holds me now, above the nearly frozen rill that spills my dreams across this day, this anxious blue of day.
It calls me…

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November Dawn

I wake to greying dawn of day
as time stands still, suspended…
breathe November’s crisp and brown
edge of winds upended.

Westerly gusts, with gratitude,
turn my head to see the dawn
escape above the edge of earth
into the grey and covered morn.

Last slivers glint unto my eyes,
raise a spark of hope, I pray,
carry me beyond the waking,
pull me through another day,
calm in all life’s coming…

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Autumn’s Ebbing Call

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On edge of autumn’s ebbing call
I pause to hear a solemn hush
that breathes in whispered stance between
sweet fading fall and winter’s rush.

Beyond this colored glory,
the burnished hues of tarnished gold
rouse the empty field in story
when verdant dell and rill still rolled,
when cottonwood and willow cooled the heat of summer’s grace,
when fawn and doe stood still in wonder among the shadows green with lace,
when calling birds stilled the current of summer’s flux beneath their wings,
when comfort came at river’s edge, when brooks would play and gently sing.

At edge of autumn’s field I stand,
witness to the season’s steep,
where browning grasses gather dreams and tuck the meadow in for sleep,
where giants drop their memories in gold about their feet,
where streams decline to whisper words of songs they can’t repeat,
where raining ochre golden reds dry the azure barren blue,
where every breath is held in hush pulling near each moment true.

I stand in quiet submission,
drawn in part by passing time,
coerced to close this phase of life
and calmly lay it down in rhyme.
This present held in honor,
my nod, respect, from one who knows
that spring will once more hold them
beyond the coming winter snows.

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