Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Inspired by the odes of John Keats, I think modern poetry may have lost a hint of the same sort of grace, cleverness, and beauty he was so talented at creating.
