Skip to content

13Mar02009

13 March, 2009

The following is a retrospective involving some of the things I most appreciate about fall. … I’m looking at it now because I really view winter as an extension of the fall and not as a completely different season. Part of this is because, even though the winter is the longest season to get through, I only look back on it in terms of it’s events. This winter there was Christmas (as with every year) and the romance involved with it… and the BIG snow. The last of winter’s notable events was the snow of winter during the beginning of the spring weather which inspired me to right this.

Autumn,
Oh, how I long for your deep strings
your warm, consoling voice
or to see the blazing brightness of the white stag
in the evening hours
gazing across the “glassy” lake
its reflection mingling with the moon

or your first days
wandering halls of the schools
scarves and ties and messy hair
or elbow patches and cordouroy
books and pencils

gold crested leaves
and the old oak
and magic

That well worn trail
lit with lanterns
hanging from stone posts
winding and muddy
the milkman’s son walks with his hound
his pocket stuffed with worry
walking towards the winter…
unresolved.

blanketing fall,
your empty wooden rooms
your crows on branches swooping
your endless shelves of books
are potential,
and ink,
and blank pages
waiting for your fable

of gold crested leaves
and old oak
and magic.

Autumn, how I long for your bugle!
it’s mixing with kindred sounds
in the heavy fog of morning
across the marshes
the tall grasses
in the dampening meadow

and by accident it finds
the french horn
the english horn
the silver flute
and the oboe

a brilliant dawn (that first burst of light)
the calling and awareness
the fleeting doe
the familiar sly fox.

They hunt for sport!
Away you loon!
Beware young fawn!
from his shoulder fires the Remington-
and pounding drums subside
and echo

a silence…

sorrow majesty slowly returns
and uncertain…
until that faint flutter
cautiously wanders
from the pastoral
leaving only

the gold crested leaves
and old oak

and magic.

{ listening to Thom Brennan and Tony Gerber (AKA Cypress Rosewood) }

Advertisements
No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: