the malaise

the malaise

summer seems like a passing thought, as the days wind down into longer stretches of shadow now, subtle and sudden this seems, the decorations strewn about my driveway, my windshield, my mailbox, a myriad of the colors of dawn signify the cycle is moving ever forward to the end, yes, the sweet smell, a hint of decay, upon closer inspection the age spots tell the real tale of this festival on eyes, one last glorious burst as the sun slides out of reach, for a time, the now feels like a lingering but will soon be the past, as all things, time spins forward, hearts beat, children grow into grand old age, and the world spins away, sometimes I wish to be the cleverest man alive, and capture all this, harness all this, hold all this, a moment, in my mind, my belief out-paces reality, somehow I know this, but I would rather reside in the beauty of hope, of the other side, of another spring.

the arrival…

the arrival…

the arrival, the wind passing through the catacombs of the trees, dark shimmering waves in night, this really seems as if I should have some understanding, the sound does not seem random, but not quite planned but? is there a voice in there, language, some message? no. a song, played on the leaves as they are now, past the zenith of the beaming sun, soon to be done, a cold wind, not the refreshing one that cools in the beating sun, a chill pervades, not a warning, a harbinger for what must be, for yes, fall is coming if not already here, but my nature app does not alert me, I just have the senses given to me and the years of my own personal observation to inform me, this is one of those nights, there will be spikes, exceptions, last blazes of glory worthy of dragging all the accoutrements of peak summer out for one more time, one more shake of the sand out of pockets and crevices, maybe two, maybe three, the warm ocean water like a welcome memory, holding on to that energy quite literally in the bones of salt, and the breeze again passes, I struggle to listen, to the song, a hymn? no, a funeral dirge, but not one unexpected, not one of melancholy, no, just what must be in the natural order of things, my urge, the immediate surge is to want to fight this, the boy with his finger in the dike, the impossible odds, the romance of it, the lack of reason, but surrender feels so unnatural even when circumstance dictates that you sit back and allow the tidal wave to wash right over you.

autumn poem, at least for the northeast USA…

autumn poem, at least for the northeast USA…

red apple sweet fruit
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

the autumn apple
reservoir of the summer sun
for within your flesh
for within your keep
the star seeds of life
key to the generations
core to root
earth to bore
the autumn apple
full and ripe
the seasons full bloom
now fully landed
upon your hand

notes… apples are a fall fruit, get it, they fall ! waka waka waka… but one of the sure sign of the fall is the apple harvest, cider and cider donuts… mmmm cider donuts…