Posted by: Thomas Drinkard | October 17, 2015

Another Piece about Autumn

Shakespeare, of course, said it best.


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 understood—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 sunset 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.



when nightfall 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,


perhaps, a reaching tendril of green

touches the long fingers of a new sun.


Thomas Rowe Drinkard


  1. Lovely!

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