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Poem

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

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