. . .let's hope. . .

 

Promise to Autumn


Since talk was born, your child’s heart has reveled
in hearing us fumble over tattoos of leaping flame
teasing russet, lime and gold. Neat or disheveled,
your painterly insistence on humongous gilt frames
and tipping your brushes in all of sun’s hues
then rolling them drunkenly in pools of aged wine
finds us stammering shibboleths that stick like glue
for the out-there choreography your patron designs.

Please pretend our words are pirouhetting leaves
that though destined to float to earth and perish
prove life is much more than labor and grief.
This is a dance meant to be cherished.

An artist friend spends hours tracing points and veins.
A child catches a gilt-dotted dancer for the tickle and shine.
Crackle underfoot gentles reminiscence in place of pain.
Autumn, you harridan, I am making you mine!

 

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, November 19, 2004