Autumn’s trees are being
stripped bare once more.
Whose fault is it anyway?
The wind? Rain? Or just that time of year?
But does it even matter what I think?
Mother Nature will have Her say, regardless.
I, too, am well within the third season.
And whose fault is it anyway?
Did my father’s passion
demand my very existence?
What opinion did I have regarding the matter?
Naught. So, God had His say, regardless.
Frost bites the leaves and whitens my temples.
And whose fault is it anyway?
Has Winter and Father Time
come to nibble and cover
with lips of silver and paint of old?
Will I never be allowed to express my views,
or forever will it be the way it is now, regardless?
...well written poetry...of seasons circled...in fullness they come...with wishes to express all...before winter in its final round...becomes one.
excellent David...
John
Nicely written...my temples too are becoming a bit silver...enjoyed your write. I am an appalachian author also. I am currently finishing my first book of short stories and poetry about growing up in the hills of Kentucky. I too am a teacher, we seem to have much in common. Anxious to read more of your work.
Blessings,
Joyce Bowling
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on October 24, 2006
Once of the best poem on the inevitability of certain things. Very, very well written.
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Cynthia
This is beautifully expressed.
Love, Diana
excellent David...
John
Blessings,
Joyce Bowling