It occurs to me a decade after the aughts,
how deliciously wrought
autumn is with its reds and golds;
how persimmons among wild fruit-trees grow
with plums, with grapevines
and a variety of berry-bushes–
it is a riot of color,
it is a cloud of melancholia that dominates
the other into letting go completely
and seeing who manages to hold his ground.
O’Neil calls it the blower of leaves; describes
it to be a time when they wither and die,
and though I see it in a different light,
cannot help but agree,
there certainly isn’t a season lovelier than this.
That being established, I am led
to other aspects that hide in the shadows
dark and dewy consonance that allows thought
and expression to slip through,
isn’t it odd how one is enticed toward all things
I wonder if it has anything to do with September
melting into October.
I lie awake in bed, hours after sunrise,
the roseate of my cheeks, long black hair and
stoic look of resignation
are almost enough to fool melancholia
into thinking it has brought chaos about–
no, on the contrary, it is the complete opposite,
a gutsy notion has made its way into my mind
as wisp of smoke, elusive and thin.
It isn’t always easy to forgo what was once
desirable, but humor me this;
wouldn’t you rather be bourbon
in someone’s glass than a page yellowed and torn?
Something to think about.
Photo credits : Loui Jover, “Cocktail Drawing,” Pinterest
Melissa is our lovely hostess at dVerse Pub where she invites us to write
a poem incorporating autumn, sprinkling in some autumn words from the
list provided in the prompt. Come join us! ❤️
Posted for Poetics: Folding into Autumn @dVerse Poets Pub