Thursday, October 8, 2020

Whisper of the Real Thing


Gold rush...

Fall Fresco

Spilt Gilt



Autumn’s rainbow-icing 
Drizzles from each limb 
Lobbing the enticing 
Outlines of a hymn 

Poet’s passions tangle 
With verse-vision blurred 
How can ink-drops wrangle 
Pictures into word 

Everywhere sweet autumn 
Splashes red-orange-gold 
Everywhere a poem 
Waiteth to unfold 

Tree-tress flares like candles 
Kindled by a breeze 
Before Gale dismantles 
Fall’s felicities 

Pumpkins gleam like lanterns 
Doffed of leafy thatch 
Drawing ageless children 
To its brief-staged patch 

Heaven’s awnings lower 
And retract at whim 
One moment a shower 
Then a sunshine-hymn 

Squirrels and blue-jays bicker 
Stockpiling culled loot 
Sensing Old Man Winter 
Almost underfoot 

Harvest-time is vital 
Not a wink to waste 
Awed by the recital 
Of a season’s haste 

Rivers, flecked with leaf-boats 
Lure us to their banks 
Rushes, decked in rust coats 
Stand in jumbled ranks 

Each lake dons the humor 
Of the moody sky 
Gone, the blue-eyed summer 
Like a butterfly 

Now Autumn’s fine fresco 
Starts to fall apart 
Here a thinning shadow 
There, decoupage-art 

Something starts to shimmer 
Wild with joyous grief 
Where a poem-glimmer 
Hails from ev’ry leaf 

Dearest miss or mister 
Pard the scribbling 
This is just a whisper 
Of The Real Thing 

© Janet Martin 



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