Autumn's Last Bloom
In the hush where summer
has already surrendered,
autumn flowers unfurl with
a defiant, molten grace.
Chrysanthemum burn in
burnished amber and saffron,
petals layered like antique
parchment catching the late
light.
Dahlias deepen into
oxblood and plum, velvet
crowns that hold the dusk
inside them.
Asters tremble in lavender
mist and violet dusk, small
constellations against the
cooling air.
Marigolds flare in carnelian
and gilded gold, stubborn
suns refusing to dim.
And the last roses- oh, the
last roses- blush in
russet, claret, and
copper,
their edges kissed with the
melancholy of frost.
They do not mourn the
shortening days.
They incandescent.
They are the earth's final,
extravagant exhale-
a chromatic elegy written in
pigment and perfume.
Crisp wind combs through
them, and they answer
with color so rich it feels like
a benediction:
ochre, bronze, burgundy,
mahogany, and sunset coral.
Every stem a small rebellion
against fading.
Every bloom a reminder that
endings can be opulent.
Autumn doesn't take the
garden quietly.
It dresses it in jewels, and
sets it on fire with beauty,
before letting it go.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
