October's Song

Yellow leaves dive onto the windowsill
Like drunken finches pitching to their rest
They fold in pungent layers ‘gainst the mill
Where rusty patches quilt a sodden nest
Two seasons worth the chill-wind starves and fasts
Its vigor now is urgent; desperate; harsh
It tugs in bullish rage at pristine mast
And lines with gold, the lily-crested marsh
The cattail shivers in its iron wrath
The milk-weed spills to sea, a silky path

Silence threads begging limbs, exposed and bare
Betrayed by tresses, tattered and wind-blown
If glory to the woman is her hair
Then beauty to the tree must be its gown
The lowered sky offers no modest shroud
But rather it enhances her distress
A backdrop dark with tumbled glow’ring cloud
Triumphant in its frigid, blue caress
It paints against the cold horizon-line
A petrified, yet delicate design

The field accepts a shrug of verdant green
The folly of a lush, transient disguise
Short-lived, the comfort of deception’s sheen
Too soon beneath a frozen sheet it lies
Yellow leaves tumble to earth's greedy tomb
Swift, phantom fingers pluck valiant remains
None shall escape its purple-knuckled plume
None can withstand ruthless November rains
As they succumb to death's dark calliope
Waiting for Spring in womb's of quiet hope

Janet Martin