Last Glory
Autumn comes not
peacefully, but as a shock.
Summer will be
missed; its brilliant sun-stunned color,
bodacious energy
fades into nuance
that seems to
greedily suck the vibrancy
back into the bronze
lap of our time-worn earth,
except for a
breathtaking superb moment
when trees
valiantly cling to one last glory
before
relinquishing their beauty to stand
silent and naked
in the frigid tundra.
Life takes blind
refuge behind walls and closed doors
where movement is
constrained, quiet, and careful.
Summer’s
boisterous play and its neglectful heart
succumbs to
memory, bits and parts swallowed
by the early
evening shadows that slowly,
but steadily,
creep from corners to consume
the core of the
room decorated with care
in anticipation of
holiday fetes,
maddened attempts
to snare hope a bit longer,
before all is
buried beneath frozen snow.
Gazing fireside,
the flames crackle and flicker.
Within their
dance, memories sink into darkness:
a buzz of the lawn
mower; wafts of freshly cut grass
skate board wheels
on concrete; a sprinkler’s rhythmic castanet
the smell of salt
on an ocean breeze; the chink and creak of a porch swing
--all beckon the
gray and weary traveler.
Drafts of early
winter seep beneath a door,
and the soul seeks
safety in recollection
of summer’s child
at play heated by laughter,
the voice of an
angel, comprehending bliss.
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