Autumn –the season named –
the end of each loud day
a wave in the voice of time.
The night’s gently gravity
reaches out for your shadow,
nostalgia’s chilled pattern
of longing.
Autumn and the land
is tinged with blood.
Time slows to a quiet
stream of moments.
Moonlight’s camber
turns to foreboding,
memory like pond-tarp
rises to the surface,
muddied forms escaping
capture.
Autumn’s moist gown of leaves,
the soft clock of earth signaling
its first chill. Your presence
lingeres in the beauty of decay.
Still, there are crevissesof light –
although a moss mosaic of sadness
inhabits the heart’s waterways,
in fragile drops of dappled light,
hope shines through.