The poetry of fallen leaves
(and fallen faces):
autumn asters, bright young smiles,
orange angels, rose-drop tears,
crackling crimson on seréd veins,
canaries flocked, sit perched aloft,
a blue-green spruce cuts the scene with her unspent youth,
scathing sun against the timid blue divine,
colours charge the air alive,
maple-d red and dand'lioned wine,
a world without a last hurrah,
rain pries loose, a wind blows calm,
in twilight’s soft'ned whispered hush,
now schmiegen an my little one.
A carnival of colour, Danish lace,
frames your ever pensive face,
fair young lass, no conquests won,
just skittish eyes that rest upon a trembling hand advanced to you,
so wave about your magic wand,
and toss your glitter to the wind,
weave your spell, thou silken one,
and reap the harvest you wished upon.
Beneath the fall-flecked woven vines,
a toast is raised of agéd wine,
the banquet set to gather round,
you dance upon the painted ground,
a victory gained, rejoice is due,
delight you must, a just reward,
but I've a question to pose of you,
you've stol'n a heart, that much is true,
and now, my dear, what plans have you?
An endless night’s icy slumber,
broken only by your steady breath,
while golden stars above their delight twinkle,
making you a sparkling sight,
fabled fox, majestic marten,
soft white hare and spottled lynx
do serve to warm your baréd limbs,
and like it or not,
you are a spectre,
that haunts the heart without a pause.
But night is fleeting
(and so are you)!
The dawn awakes your soft repose,
to greet you with her rad’ant light,
and spread upon the dormant land,
the finest cloak of green verdure,
while yellow poppies emrace your hand,
then blow away,
and which of them is you
drifting into the distance,
beyond my gaze.