A Love Song to Autumn
The earth is alive with the breath of November,
The breath that inebriates dirt and grey sky,
Bursting the fruit with ripe life and sweet nectar,
As Pan plants in cores a set of black eyes.
The hillocks are haunted by translucent specters,
The ghosts that with chimney-smoke, wordless, conspire,
The mist that is blown by autumnal lungs,
When all of the wheat grows in thick golden wires,
When harvesting treasures in cellars are hung,
When choirs of birds in the orchard give tongue,
And trees blossom red in the vibrance of fire.
You followed me home in the grey afternoon—
I heard your swift footsteps, the rustle of leaves—
Your cold, misty footsteps with maple were strewn,
Then tumbled in water-beads, skimming the eaves.
Yet, somehow, you followed me in-doors, and soon
The world within walls was relit and transformed.
Thanksgiving scents issued from cracks in the walls,
The kitchen was frenzy with savory storm,
You peeked from the dishes, the wreath-adorned halls,
I looked in my cup, and there you had called—
You swam through sugary pumpkin-spice warmth.
Beneath the cold moon that grins over the woods,
Somebody thought to grow bonfire art:
We picked the dry undergrowth, scorning the good
Of the branches that cried when we snapped them apart.
The parched, crispy leaves lay where crimson trees stood—
We dropped them throughout the fiery heart.
Autumn, your frolic the smoke-piers inspired;
The earth dons the shroud of the somber, black spell—
Persephone’s underworld, gloomy attire.
You ready the earth for a regal farewell—
As wailing, low winds ring the sonorous knell,
We heap blackened leaves on the funeral pyre.