A panacea as if by design
grown in flower gardens and in the woods,
healing all ills and ails as if divine,
unless the frost blights its womanly hoods.
You respect a wall as it stands,
each stone heaped to obscure the eye,
or the stones find heft in one’s hands,
piled atop to obscure the sky.
(Written with appreciation for
Robert Frost’s “My November Guest”)
How is it that gloomy Autumn murk
is as passing lovely as a Summer’s day
when sunlight fails and shadows lurk
and rainclouds dim each reaching ray?
Fall is always weeping, even when not,
while yesterday’s tears drip from eaves
and color drains from a reverie of rot—
the huddling memories of fallen leaves.
The gray barrenness is a thing akin
to mourners crowding a funeral home,
peopling absence around a silent coffin
from which the spirit has gone to roam.
And grief has a beauty all its own,
being an atmosphere of misty tears,
a season when we’re among many, yet alone,
plunged deep in phantoms from previous years.
It is overcast with a private veil,
the ambience of our greatest grief
a season of solitude, languishing and pale
like the sun seen through a torn diary leaf.
Autumn is the season of loss and pity,
moody and umbral like the brokenhearted,
but its dirge refrains with a line of dignity—
“Remember to remember the departed.”