In this fading comes regeneration
(even the most robust things must sleep)
so the trees light up with celebration
while within the soil their roots stretch out deep
as on a bed locked far inside a keep
whose walls will shield them from the coming chill.
Above, the birds who hop around and peep
will soon retire, leaving the air still.
And we who wait on our nature’s capricious will
with deeper longings taking root for hearth and home
hold anticipation tight in our hands until
the first cool morning blows upon our weary bones.
I’ve heard of a time of second childhood
that starts to bloom with an outward aging
when times of rest might seem to work for good
each day becomes instead more engaging.
In the heart, defiant storms are raging.
What I’ve heard, I begin to understand:
each moment seems elaborate staging.
Time runs too swiftly through my outstretched hands;
while one part fades, another part makes a new stand
like a tree digging deep to ignite revival.
I take a new look at the autumn of this land
and hear inside the jingling keys of survival.
This is my attempt at a poem of Spenserian stanzas. As often happens, I may have gotten carried away and neglected my duty to the strict metre. . . . still, this is my offering for the first day of Autumn. Thank you for reading! Excuse me while I go eat pumpkin-y cinnamon-y things. . .