Saturday, November 18, 2006

Poetry Thursday, Late

November in the Park

Oak leaves are the last to fall.

They skitter up and down the sidewalk,

clutter the dormant fountains,

fly updrafts past dull statues

that reflect pale sunlight filtered through thin clouds;

they climb the roof to a bell tower

streaked with green patina across once-shining copper clothing.

The maples and birch and ash long ago dropped their color,

their leaves swept away,

leaving the field to these boorish brown intruders.

The oak stays loaded with more volleys,

ready to drop another round that gets underfoot.

Soon the white carpet will arrive

and bury these drab epilogues to autumn.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hey Dave,
I like your work about the coming of fall and the transition into winter. You have done a few now and I haven't mentioned it yet. As a former New Yorker who is now an adopted southerner, what I miss the most is the changing of the seasons, especially the fall into winter transfer. It is nice to read your words and add my own imagery. It makes sure that I at least take out those great memories and dust them off every now and again.