The Fall is Here

The fall is here;

The wind has brought her

On his wings

Of golden leaves

/

And left her standing,

Cold and lonely,

At the door

Of summer;

/

The fall is here;

Her fingers out of clouds

Weave cobwebs

Of despair;

/

Was it by chance or not

That this unending year

Whom in her web she caught

Was me?

/

No, it was always

Meant to be

That a lonely fall

Would come for me,

/

Confused

Because my heart,

When it still beat,

Sounded and felt a little

/

Like her own when she

Stood, cold and lonely,

Knocking on the door

Of summer

The Off Season

Frozen autumn leaves

Frost the path before me;

Hoar hovers over

Naked trees;

/

In wan wintry skies

Briefly rests the night

Before once again

Filling the eyes to the brim;

/

And the snow won’t fall,

And the sun won’t rise –

Naught would light the true face

Of this moment in time

/

When the past is gone,

While the future fears

To step on the same path

As I

The Fifth Season

You asked for summer –

And it’s at your threshold,

In robes of burning leaves

Of dry, exhausted soil

/

Afraid of heat and draught,

You begged for autumn

And, crying rains, it came

To wail outside your door

/

Scared of its open wounds,

You called for winter

Who, like a blizzard, swift

All ice, distress and cold,

/

Appeared, but it was spring

You thought you wanted:

Capricious, lukewarm, shy

It came, but you recoiled

/

You locked your home,

Inventing a fifth season,

Which looked like summer,

Smelled like autumn herbs,

/

Which had the grace

And fierceness of a winter

And laughed, like spring,

At your uncanny jokes

Autumn

Autumn, what color is your hair?

Like mine, it’s this of dying summer;

And this long copper dress you wear

Have you not taken from my shelf?

/

The strong, cold wind that brought you here

Could be the deepest breath from my chest;

Like mine, your voice is low and quiet,

Like me, all that you are is change

/

You color skies with daunting colors,

You drain its warmth out of the sun

Like mine, your coming is unwelcome:

It means that worse things are to come

/

Autumn, you’re smiling from my mirror

A mother’s smile that tells me all shall pass

I trust you, Autumn, but I’m leaving

To chase my dying summer’s warmth