Autumn Is

The between place
A pause, indrawn breath
Of air crisp and tart and bright
As apples, as leaves turning to
Rustling flame, whole forests burning
Red orange rattling
Knucklebones upon the nighted windowpane.

Here there be magic, here there be marvels
Dark and wondrous strange
Harvests of dreams
Riding smokey currents
Reaped as the earth is reaching
For her downy white coverlet
Catlike yawning steam coiling.

More than spring’s spritely urgency
Deeper than summer’s languor
Marking the border between
Waking and winter’s long slumber
Lays October’s country
The shivery bittersweet taste
Of mortality, where the lines blur.

This, this is where autumn lives
At the turning, changing of the courts
Wicked, wild, and free
Sharp as knives and witch’s cold iron teeth
Glinting beneath fat, full, ripe
Hunter’s moon hung lantern,
Welcome twisting fine madness sailing
Madcap stirrings of twilight’s hem.


5 Responses to “Autumn Is”

  1. dried colourful leaves sound their applause

    • pine whisperer Says:

      your mission
      ruthless optimism
      because despair is everywhere; it is a cheap and worthless commodity
      surely not a suction of your creative energy
      write the bad stuff as part of your venting routine (we all must scream into the pillow as necessary)
      make paper copies and burn them
      one second of beauty can make up for hours of self-imposed darkness

  2. eight hundred
    keep planting your seeds

  3. Spent a perfect and poignant afternoon at the cottage, with your grandmother. So much of her world has vanished. I sometimes wonder how she summons the energy to get up each morning. There is a miracle at work here! Cast a thought her way the next time you feel dark clouds at your shoulders.

  4. stop casting yourself as C-ran-oh
    the self-selected costume has become too comfortable
    it is a lie
    try on the role of an honourable partner
    let the world see you away from the spit bucket you became at the hands of scornful, distant voices
    find something from that era and turn it to ash
    it can so easily be you in the images so beautifully graced by your words

    can you hear screaming on the north wind this evening

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