Posted by: Thomas Drinkard | October 11, 2013

A Poem for the Season

Gray Autumn

That time of year thou mayest in me behold
When yellow leaves or none, or few, do hang…
Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

When I first knew that fall had finally come,
I realized  I had lied in summer.

Gray clouds cling like blown, wet hair,
hiding mountains across the lake—
whose autumn colors
I had said
would be the season’s glory.

I’d said that my eyes,
having drunk their fill of sun and green,
thirsted for scarlet and gold
against the sunsets of shortening days,

knowing the Winter Solstice
comes striding like a dark, tall wind
whose passing stirs the limbs
and trembles leaves still clinging to naked branches.

Now,
when darkness comes,
spilling among the trunks,
filling empty spaces to top the leaves
burying fantasy colors in a cloak of black,

I hear my summer lie echoing
like a night cry
among skinny barren limbs,
knowing the blank, white of winter

will finally erase detail,
blur all specifics,
until, perhaps
a reaching tendril of green
touches the long fingers of a new sun.

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Responses

  1. Thanks for this poem to my favorite season, Thomas!

    • Those of us who are “a certain age” see two autumns, here.

      • Good point Sir and I’m definitely of “a certain age.”


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