The curtain falls
change ever trustable
autumn bows out
in finale combustible.
The curtain falls
change ever trustable
autumn bows out
in finale combustible.
November pink, proclaiming June
defies taxonomy
in nonconforming renegade
frilled autonomy.
Yes, dear reader, roses greeted me at my new front door. In November! In Indiana!
Through its own stained glass
glowing topaz and copper
autumn
deigns to shine
for so brief a breath
then
in brittling sigh
shatters
to winter.
shout-out
joy in having been
is there something
about the transient
that sings its own amen?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
when the world was turning gold
shadows mocked in counterplay:
tomorrow you’ll be too old.
when the summer is through
and the garden is all kerfuffle?
Seek golden red
stand on your head
and burrow in marigold ruffle.
in the season of no name
greens waver
the high grass
restless, uncertain
twists
as a wistful air plays
against its parchment edges
sighing
a sepia wash hovers
over the letting-go
but
here and there
a regal smear
of purple.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
mushed from hot rain
harvest is mildewed
people the same
it sure isn’t summer
nor autumn by right
what is this season
of not-yet and not-quite?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.