Burning leaves: October may be a crueler month than April
In their hues of gold, vermilion and mauve
The autumn leaves, each a portion of the past,
Each a tiny glimpse of memory,
From lovely trees have fallen.
Cast into an iridescent fire,
The gold, vermilion and mauve melding
With the lustrous flame.
The bright embers and smoke
Lull one into reflection.
Didactic in metaphor, to woodland watchers I proclaim
The tree is love and the leaves tender echoes
Of past raptures. I go on. When echoes fade
Is their leafy brilliance a tearful sight to behold?
The hand holds, rather cradles, the fragile, unspeakable
Beauty of a dead leaf so much like the heart
Holds the dead enchanting echoes of a long lost love.
They are burning now and will be gone forever.
One watches in painful longing. Is this the end?
There will be a new spring
And a return of blossoms and leaves
And new seasons of love's melancholy.
Copyright © 1999 by John Faragher
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