The time of the season

With a sinister chuckle, Autumn reaches out to the south and touches it with her icy fingers. As if she wants to say, "I'm still here, and I still rule," she ices the air to the best of her weak power in the southern lands. She still fails to nullify the latitude; the south returns her evil chuckle with a sarcastic laugh of its own.

Autumn is co-regent with the night, but she doesn't mind; it... forces the area to abide by her rules, to adjust to her patterns, to accept the occasional nightly chill. She accepts this small victory and might be able to hold her sway over the area if the conditions are right. It remains to be seen if the sky remains in its dark shroud or if the winds manage to draw back the curtains and let the sun into the room.

Autumn may be a flake, a weakling in the south, but she is no fool. She'll get the most out of her short reign, in whatever way she can.

 

 

 

From my Forthcoming book, Meditations of an Old Man

I still love poetry.

As many of you have discovered, I am a poet.  I love poetry in almost all forms.  Some I don't understand, so I find it hard to include it on my list.
I love the rhymes, the meters,   I love a good limerick, and naked verses were the first type I did...in a journal, anyway.

This morning gave rise to another.

The morning of the twenty-third,
I heard a silent cry.
"I know that sound," I quietly mused.
"Something had to die."

It was early morning
the sun not yet on the rise.
The night was dark, the stars were out,
but the moon was in disguise.

I opened my door and went outside
while I held my breath,
hoping, somehow, to shield myself
from the prominent smell of death.

But the air was clean and sweet
on this dark and cool night.
But what of the sound, the cry I heard?
Could I have not been right?

The silent cry I heard again.
To find the source, I glanced around.
I saw a single, reddened leaf,
floating gently to the ground.

But in my apprehension,
I felt a twinge of grief...
Could I have really heard the death cry
of a single leaf?

A breeze blew softly through the branches
but with nary another sound
More of the leaves broke off a branch
And floated to the ground.

I realized, then, what I had heard,
It wasn't a leaf's cry.
It was the final cry of summer:
Summer had to die.

As we pass, like Earth, through seasons,
passing swiftly like a fly....
Let's appreciate our summer --
Because our summer, too, has to die.