This Autumn
A strange autumn this,
with its tight closed fists,
its lynched, hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud
listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
We are knuckled inwards.
A pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who survive.
We enter this wintry furnace
refined, steeled, and buckled
with a somber endurance
and we will come through
just as autumn does, renewing
the earth with its fiber and sorrows.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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