A Glimpse of Autumn
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7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
Somberness into existence is not a tumble.
Earth's ever-changing season mumbles.
Longing, pining, and scouring to leap, a sense free.
To beat, rupture of the endometrium of worry.
Find out how to tour this aesthetical orb.
Whatever you might protect is potherb.
Each step will pay off; Earth seems endless.
Maintain in mind her charming prowess.
Without mild radiation, stars would be ablaze.
The sparkle of your eyes makes you in a daze.
Shine bright, we made you for this world.
The zeal of fate, separate yourself from the herd.
It soars, snows, splashes, and seeks shelter.
Grasping beyond, setting up a binding welter.
Fall leaves were reflected on the bright floor.
Is it confined to a life of pain, as to explore?
Will the fall petals retain the bitterness of the shrub?
Was it chopped from moisture roots and snubs?
Are you rebelling over harsh conditions outside?
Or maybe the mood wasn't truly steady inside.
I identify dry autumn leaves with a restless soul.
How are the parts pulled out of the whole?
During leisurely walks. Integrate, and create a flow.
Awareness of the paradox of infinite glow.
Written: December 24, 2022
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Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2022
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