Poem -
September Song
The last of the crimson maple
Falls into the winds of autumn.
Bare and skeleton fingers
reach out to the clouds of winter.
Awaiting its down feathered coats
Of purity and cleansing snow.
On the branch a single decoration
Of the coming festive season.
A snow white dove that sits alone
Deciding not to fly to warm
Southern climes.
But perhaps to await the return
Of its missing feathered mate.
In a final act of lifelong devotion.
I too feel the melancholy
of the changing seasons
Tired of its continual flow
From spring to summer
and autumn to winter.
Mimicking my own
Fragile mortality.
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