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.
When that icy winter comes
and the chilly wind does blow
best stay indoors
as it's freezing down below
but enquiring minds need to know
who ploughs the roads
so the snowplough man can drive to work
and go to plough the snow?
A single star softens
above cold stone,
where quiet shadows steal across the lawn.
A lone sprout
stands tall—
waiting to greet the ghostly glimmer of dawn.
With petals frozen in pure repose,
it whispers the memory of winter’s weathered white.
A pale, pristine thing,
subdued,
breathing its beauty into the bitter night.
¦¦¦¦¦ woods ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ fill up with snow.
¦¦¦ little horse ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ stop ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Between ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ easy wind and downy flake.
¦¦¦ woods ¦¦¦ lovely, dark ¦¦¦ deep,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ miles to go before I sleep,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of )
COLD MERCY
frost in his eyes, choosing separation, dancing alone
Currently it’s nothing better
Than this summer Sunday morning
I imagined your love letter
Sent you my reply - it’s coming
Passing time that never waits
Heading further to your part
Of the country, landing straight
To the mailbox of your heart
You may open my reply
Or leave it unread and lost
In the depth of this July
Soon erased by winter frost..
Hard-etched frozen windowpanes
never two adorned the same.
Soft morning light filters through
setting jeweled fronds aflame.
Bitterly cold arctic winds
blustered around overnight,
spattering frigid patterns,
ornate brush strokes of delight.
A silver sylvan forest
where fairies carouse and dance
beneath bright crystal fern flags,
an impromptu frost romance.
Sharp icy fingers crackle,
poking downward from the eaves;
a short few hours of magic
then the glory melts and leaves.
July 16, 2026
For Pattern Poetry Contest
Sara Kendrick, Sponsor
watercolors stir
from alabaster rime.
Your presence shapes
a spacious stillness
Empty park bench waits—
still warm from previous sat's.
Its slats welcome
visitors to air their spats,
dip their hats,
wag their tales,
beg for pats,
and relish the clear fresh park air.
I am a wolf
gaunt and feral from the cold
snapping at anything that dares draw near
My ember-heart still burns, rages, spits fury,
though the winter ice has stolen my strength
but the truth has teeth, too
I am fierce, a wild thing that cannot be caged
I am a forestfire, a disaster, a tsunami
I am the whisper of dread across your cheek
You can try to build your prison of pretty words and expectations around me
but I will tear it down
brick by brick
bloody fingertips forming bloody claws
as I release my wrath, howling vengeance to the stars
hungry and hurting I still am
but nature gave me fangs for a reason
All winter long the garden kept
its silence under sheets of snow,
roots curled tight where secrets slept
no sun allowed to show.
But something in the buried seed
remembered light, remembered air,
and pushed against the weight of need
with fragile, stubborn care.
Now petals lift where ice once clung,
soft colors breaking through—
the quiet earth has found its tongue,
and speaks in living hue.
Two roads diverged as they often do
and at the fork a skeleton lay -
a traveller who stood and thought it through;
as around his feet the bindweed grew.
He stayed too long to choose a way
Seeing both paths equal - foul or fair -
I wonder how his thinking went
that had him starved and rooted there;
caught in vacillation’s snare
until his life was vainly spent.
We may say this fool deserved to die;
this ignoramus had no wit,
but for God’s grace stay you or I
who do not lack the Lord’s supply;
for decision has faith at the soul of it.
I shall be singing this by and by
somewhere many ages hence:
two roads diverged and it was not I
who made no choice except to die
and thus show God indifference.
The roads I never followed
In the crossroads each of the paths stare at me
One directly leads to success
No lessons learned of hardships to overcome
The other curls and winds around the dense forest
Rocks cover the path and bushes hug the air
Yet the others cry darkly
My feet throw me toward the barricaded road
Thorns tear my skin and rocks trip my steps
While the other goes straight, it is full of fake things
That road I never followed shines brightly through the wooded path I endure
If I were to walk down the meaningless path it would kill me
But now I am running through my clouded visions
Running for my future beyond this road
And running away from who I was
In a cool winter day
as the season begins to warm
trees are covered in a coat of white
decorated by hoarfrost
transforming it
to a beautiful winter land
as the wind gently blows
through the branches
with each puff it cascades
settling on the ground below
soon the trees become barren
the coats gently removed
only to be redecorated
on another day in winter's season.
Jack Frost has tossed
Green grass gone lost
He’s redecorated
Snow celebrated
As new carpet to walk
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