Views

Poetry in pictures and words

When the trees lay to the ground,
the Summer regalia, 
the  sundresses of 
Verdant lace, now faded.
Ochre, orange and sage. 
The once magnificent canopy
strewn on the floor
like a discarded quilt.
A blanket
not meant for bed
or dressing a seat.
Laundry on the floor.

I rub my eyes
and breath deeply
the dry, nutty smell of
salted fern, mushroom and earth.
Oak, the last leaves to shed
flick and click recklessly
through empty trees.
One leaf here, one there
an odd and ancient
percussion.
A clock, whose spring has wound
past the last unwinding. 

Unlike the bustling parlor
of Summer sunshine, 
birdsong and rustling green,
Autumn whispers
in dry grasses. 
Hissing, swishing 
sound warmer than the air.
I am compelled to lay down,
below the breezy reach
and dream into 
the gray wisp that rolls 
above the fractal hands.