Melody of Hope

There’s a lonely sort of pining in the quiet dawn of fall
When the green and crimson awning of the autumn tree is null
As, in thought we place a kiss upon the meek and weathered stance
Of this brave, forlorn battalion stripped of glory and romance

Yet, the oak retains its grandeur though its vesture warms the sod
There’s a raw and naked splendor in this mighty work of God
Like a forest in an acorn or a warrior in the womb
The redolence of late autumn succors promise in its tomb

There’s a winsome sort of sadness in the silent autumn’s eve
Amplified by absent cricket-song and percussion of leaf
As the wind in rising dissonance tosses the pine-tree spire
In rehearsal for performances of chilling repertoire

Yet, within its melancholy note a stirring passion grips
The tender ache within our throat and restless fingertips
For the song of lonely pining and the sorrow in its eye
Are the soulful new beginnings of an evening in July

Janet Martin