Of Paling Autumn-tide...

Tucked between stunning sunrises and sunsets

a week of busy, beautiful autumn days and fall foliage farewells

whirled away...

Of senses steeped in heavens heaped with bottomless azure

Of hunger held where moments meld to moments like felled leaves

of awesome blaze of autumn days, no awed gaze can secure

of joy and grief as leaf-by-leaf earth gathers final sheaves

of happiness and loneliness in autumn’s madrigal

of dappled skies as lullabies are loosened from the limb

of mellow, yellow bliss in the felicity of fall

of landscapes glossed with leaves of frost as lofty tapers dim

of garnet, gold, and umber soldering of farewell’s kiss

of tattered music sheets scattered like fleets on leaf-tossed seas

of vain attempt to circumvent the haste of What Yet Is

of precious days soon blazoning a maze of memories

of hearts beguiled by art run wild in unrivaled release

of brooding blues and dazzling hues in myriad shades of red

of purple hills as morning spills its molten masterpiece

of worship’s woo as winds undo bronze buttons overhead

of pure delight footloose, in spite of ties that snare and bind

of heartstrings caught in every thought besotted by fall’s bow’r

of senses keened by tresses weaned, to what is soon behind

of season spent and reason bent with remnants of lent flow’r

of wisdom earned by lessons learned of what no one can stay

of now and here hinged to a sphere of ages out of reach

of you and I beneath a vault of sky, crowning today

of urge and whim soft burgeoning with what remains to teach

of ‘love-you-so’ and letting go and ‘oh-don’t-leave-me-yet’

of weathering the tethering of dusk-bathed countryside

of cherishing the precious perishing leaf-pirouette

of ships that sail upon a vale of paling autumn-tide

of glint and glance of dizzy dance of leaves across the yard

of taking stock of tick and tock’s inevitable claim

of shadows thinned by a cold wind raking a boulevard

of wooden wicks like candlesticks snuffed of life’s little flame

of scarves of smoke draped on an ochre ambience of death

of days undone by ways common to man since Time was spun

of a rag quilt, pieced, stitched and spilt with every sacred breath

of silver ilk, like milkweed silk snagged on a ray of sun

© Janet Martin