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Erin A Collins

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Member Since: Before 2003

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by Erin A Collins

Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Erin A Collins
•  The Face of a Hero
•  Summertime
           >> View all 3

This poem won second place in a national collegiate Literary contest, campus level, and was chosen for publication in the North Lake College's Duck Soup Literary magazine for 2003.

Twilight’s afterglow is softened by fall’s shadowy mist.
Leaves, longing to cling to the branches of the trees, reluctantly succumb to the inevitable fate which waits. Misty mornings’ fog plays chase with the water’s surface.
Frost swirls its icy fingers deeper, bringing with it delicate patterns of ice crystals, now forming at the waters edge.

Geese cry out as they fly in an ancient ritual longer than time, a V formation; a silhouetted dance against the azure blue sky.
Necks arched, they race to beat the cold, unrelenting breath of winter, with their wings beating out in desperation to reach the winter haven. Ducks follow close behind in the wake of the geese, their ritual mirroring the ones gone on before.

Children play in the streets, puffs of breath captured in the frosty breeze, their cheeks aglow with the bite of it.
Eyes sparkle at the wonder of the Halloween season, full of anticipation and promises of candy. Ghostly jack-o-lanterns, their faces glowing with toothy grins, light up the night. Little pumpkins, ghouls, goblins, and fairy princesses dot the neighborhood, dragging bags of candy behind little feet.

Turkeys, Christmas trees and other festive items adorn the store windows. Santas riding in miniature sleighs, pulled by cute reindeer; Rudolph in the lead, his nose aglow with a tiny bulb, blinking cheerfully; bring fresh wonderment into tiny eyes, though they have beheld them the year before; somehow forgotten in the merriment of summer.

Fireplaces smoke leisurely, billowing puffs into the night sky.
Windows, hazy with the smokiness of cold, are marred by finger paintings, small hand prints, and noses pressed against the glass; awaiting that first snowflake to make its grand entry.
They dream of mitten covered hands, clumsily forming snowballs,
artillery for the long battle ahead.

Nights when the stars shimmer like fine gems, crisp and clear, moonlight working in symphony with them to create a celestial masterpiece, silent, peaceful; its music a song of the heart.

It is a time to prepare for the sleep of winter, a time to slow down for a while to savor the warmth of family and friends, to renew the heart perhaps; to draw closer to the ancient moment in time, when winter was born on the wings of Autumn.

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Reviewed by A Serviceable Villain 10/20/2008

Excellent write . . . top drawer all the way!

Best wishes,

Reviewed by Micki Peluso 8/9/2008
This poem enwraps it's words around the reader, drawing them into the poem, as the imagery fills one with similar memories of autumn, past and prEsent. The last line, "when winter was born on the wings of autumn", is superb. Wonderfully written!!

Micki Pelsuo, author of . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG
Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 4/18/2007

Lovely imagery bring the season to the fore; one doesn't read these beautiful lines, they experience them. Well done.

Welcome to Author's Den, you're among friends.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.

I, too, love the name, Aurora ....
Reviewed by Gloria Gay 4/18/2007
A gem of a poem.
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 4/18/2007

First of all, welcome to the Den; you are among friends! :)

Secondly, this is one of the most prettiest poems I have ever had the pleasure of coming across! This is absolutely beautiful! Very well done; brava!

(((HUGS))) and love, a new Texas friend, Karen Lynn. :D

Love your first name! :)
Reviewed by Paul Berube 4/18/2007

I really enjoyed. Your imagery was superb. I love that last line.
"when winter was born on the wings of Autumn."

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