Each fall, I make a point of walking by these bushes
to see if the leaves are the correct color, and have arranged themselves
into a pose that would make a nice picture.
So far, this is as close as I've gotten.
Sometimes, the yellow leaves hang in the gray weather,
like a solitary heart waiting for an absent lover until,
too cold and dripping with rain like a single tear,
it drops away, it's hopes turned to winter.
3 comments:
Poetic melancholy, too? Your talents never end, Speedway. That was beautiful, as is the shape of those leaves. I don't recognise the species so I suspect it just lives on your side of the pond.
Thank you, Dive. You're kind, as ever. I didn't mean to make a poem, it just came out. I confess, though, I did go on line to see if I could find a poem about autumn, but there were none about yellow leaves and they were all just too sad -- death and decay -- and all that rot, when I wanted beauty and dormancy and hope. So I guess I made my own.
I stick with Keats on Autumn.
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