deepundergroundpoetry.com

Autumn Turning Winter

All over autumn leaves have fallen.  
Mountains that were colored like stained glass,  
now, from far away, are mostly gray,  
the color of limbs, branches and trunks.  
And here, close by, the leaves of autumn  
lay brown on the ground  
having become work for the rake and its owner.  
The forecast is for rain, then colder weather is moving in  
like the murder of crows that lives near by, but visits often  
as though they were a band of bored neighborhood kids  
going from house to house looking for mild mischief
or just something to do.  
Soon the crows fly away into the dark woods  
and the only sound I hear
is the dog at my feet snoring.  
I wonder what he is dreaming of.  
I know he's surely a dreamer.  
his running legs give him away.  
In his slumber he is chasing blue cars,  
or the red ball I've thrown in the backyard,  
Chasing a brown rabbit or the gray squirrel  
or maybe he is running from the dog catcher,  
fleeing from the angry neighbor  
or running to the house when lightning flashes  
and thunder roars during a storm.  
And the old folks say that it means  
the devil is beating his wife.  
And a chilly breeze shivers    
through the trees outside.  
A few remaining leaves flutter down  
and I am the owner of the rake  
and the cool of autumn and the winter cold  
make my joints ache.  
I have become stiff with age,  
my hair gray like the branches,  
my beard white as winter's first snow.  
I know how the giraffe feels  
when he is slow and calculating,  
deliberately positioning himself  
to drink from the waterhole,  
let alone trying to stand up from the ground.  
But I will take these old bones  
and collect my rake from the shed  
to gather the fallen leaves  
as is my annual destiny and I'll blame it  
on Adam as I always do.  
It is, after all, his fault that I should work the land,  
But how was he to know that the woman was trouble?  
Eve was the only one he'd ever seen  
He must have thought her so special,  
Wonderful and enchanting  
the way men look at women in airports  
while waiting for their flights,  
watching them walk down the concourses  
beautiful to behold, denying that  
they are really all the same  
and bring with them drama and a headache,  
But who can blame them?
They are not so different than winter.  
 
 
Seed
Written by Seed
Published | Edited 29th Nov 2020
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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