Autumn's Silent Verse

I hear the words. In autumn's silent verse lie anapestic wafts of falling leaves with golden syllables both bright and terse, the crimson pluck of summer as it grieves its loss of verdant shimmer. In the wake of crisp and subtle gusts the florid blades crescendo as the sunlight comes to slake a thirst for saffron til the morning fades into the afternoon. Throughout the day as cherries black and sweet scaled up and down the August clef these notes atonal splay like drifting heart beats, every verb and noun irregular. September's brusk intrude has come to hold in taciturn embrace the last of shy begonias, an etude in bitter truth as spiders' tattered lace lilts in wisteria. I hear the moans of aimless cadence rattle through the trees as nascent winter's catechumen hones his hiemal vespers by dead white degrees. I can't obsess. It's early fall, yet I am not immune to meter in the loft of birch unleafing to the gloaming sky. And though the fledgling whisper is still soft as eider I hear words. The coarse enjambed reprises with the start and stop of wind presage the future of a world that's dammed in ice without damnation of the sinned. I can't escape the scape. The pewter gape of frost bound windows as October girds for gelid isolation brings the scrape of branches on the glass. I hear the words. 9/9/19