Alexander da Silva Lima Poet Free verse

THE AUTUMN OF THE TEN HOUSES (DHR)

THE AUTUMN OF THE TEN HOUSES (DHR)

In the settlement of ten houses,
autumn arrived nameless.

The houses were arranged
like an old locomotive
poised to depart.

No child knew
when a season began.

We knew by the cold in the cracks,
by the drier red earth,
by the thin coffee steaming in the mugs,
by the smell of bread
rising near the wood stove.

The relentless summer heat
departed on the cool night breeze.

The poetry of the Paraná River turned to mist
and, in the early morning hours,
sought the warmth of the wood stoves
only to vanish in a kiss.

The old pink silk-floss tree
embodied death as it shed its leaves,
only to give life back later.

From the nearly bare branches,
flowers bloomed where, days before,
there had been only absence.

Its leaves fell slowly,
like the sweat of unjust toil,
like the days torn
from our parents' hands.

We children were in a rush.

In the guava and mango trees,
we picked the fruit while still green
and missed out on the sweetness
for not knowing how to wait.

The silk-floss tree knew a different way.

Its thorn-covered trunk
seemed to say that even beauty
must learn to defend itself.

In autumn, it would undress.

But between March and April,
pink flowers would burst forth
from the nearly empty branches.

Bees, hummingbirds, and birds
would arrive in a festive flurry.

And for a few days,
the poor settlement bloomed along with it.

There was still thin coffee and shared bread,
tired hands feeding the fire before the sun rose.

The scent of roasted coffee
was more invigorating
than the cry of a newborn. The makeshift chimneys
were the old locomotive’s breath.

Poverty had not gone away.

But there were flowers.

The food fit in the dented bottom of a pot.
Hope, in a Sunday meal with the family.

And an entire life,
in a single autumn day.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

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

Alison A Smith September 21, 2026 at 3:58 PM A beautifully controlled free-verse meditation in which the silk-floss tree becomes both witness and emblem of endurance. The recurring images of thin coffee, shared bread, smoke, flowers, and the locomotive-like settlement give poverty a tender, lived texture, while the final compression of hope into “a single autumn day” is quietly devastating.