Wrestling with Realization

In autumn, nothing is ordinary

Summer does not leave discretely; instead

Farewell tastes like wild apples, mulled berry

Loss veils its sorrow in cinnamon thread

Abandonment dons dashing apparel

Distraction spills over hills, red and gold

Still, undone buttons and loose threads unravel

Realization is stark-naked, cold

“Well, well”, we whisper while autumn lingers

Warming our words with color; at the Gate

Time’s Undertaker waits where our fingers

Clutch fabric destined to disintegrate

© Janet Martin