I gaze in wonder at the turning of green to gold,
The shedding of a summer's cloak.
"Does it hurt?
Does the display we chart on 'Peak Maps' mask a painful process?"
I've not yet met a morphosis that came without a price.
My soul account is still in the red,
indebted by past moves from here to there.
But I'd pay again.
When my pride and delusions are being plucked leaf-by-leaf
Leaving me exposed, nude
And shivering in the whipping winter winds
I can't hide a secret delight at the sight of leaves lying at my feet.
Lies and cheap adornments in a colorful pile at my roots,
And I reach for the heavens with open arms.
So, each Autumn, I hear them now with wiser eyes.
Foliage is not yellows and reds,
But screams and sobs,
Glorious and melodius moans of change gone horribly right.
3 comments:
Great poem. I told my xanga friends to hike over here and read it.
This is a northerner thing isn't it? When I flew over Virginia a few years ago around fall time, I initially thought there had been a forest fire.
Dan, It's wonderous - too fine to remain hidden on a blog - find a way to share it. And I agree with your friend about it being a northern thing, native Floridians never understand it completely.
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