Right now, the roadsides are royal --
this minute, and then, perhaps, another
week or two for goldenrod to gold leaf,
for wild asters mounding their purple rayed suns.
Already, here and there, a tree begins disrobing.
Beneath all this glamour we glimpse
the bare body of the world; in limb lines read
the coil of birth, the release of death,
the long acceptance of life.
this minute, and then, perhaps, another
week or two for goldenrod to gold leaf,
for wild asters mounding their purple rayed suns.
Already, here and there, a tree begins disrobing.
Beneath all this glamour we glimpse
the bare body of the world; in limb lines read
the coil of birth, the release of death,
the long acceptance of life.
I wonder: Is there a more poetically fertile season than autumn? A lovely poem, with beautifully subtle alliterations in the last few lines.
ReplyDeleteThanks! I wonder if anyone has done a count of famous poems inspired by each season, to see which has the most.
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