Tenth Cycle
Just twenty days. The mystical
Libra will turn rosette boughs into
fading auburn… nights combing
the breeze colder and quite somber ,
as if women on bare hilltops await
the arrival of men in some far oceans
when bleached summer gives way
to icicles of endurance so patient
and wives, lovers tremble in this anticipation
swaying
back and forth, balancing the cold
clutches of afternoon’s light and
destitute clouds wearing mufflers
for near or far elegies of snow.
It is grippingly delicate: I mean, watching
the changing hint of a breeze growing
paler.
Yet wiser is October rising to chip the
glow of studded stars, bit by bit, dying
in the gray of grayest sleet to bear
the tunes of venial woes. Yet, it is the cycle
when courage bides its time for amiable joy.
It is the cycle when her adolescent stage
transforms ladies into maids-in-waiting...
how much longer must the women endure
to find an armada of loved ones back home?
And the weight of contentment drips, drips
in a season fulfilling its own quest.
There are
no answers; only reflective surrender.
Contest: Waiting
Sponsor: james rogers
9/10/2015
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2015
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