She's asking us to write about Autumn, and presents a myriad of ways to go about it. The funny thing is, which I'm actually scratching my head over. I swear I wrote a poem a while back about fall. In fact I see the title, Autumnal, but for whatever reason, it's not in my postings on any of my poetry sites, nor is it in my poetry files on-line or off line. It's just weird, perhaps it's something I had intended to write, but never got around to--just found it interesting and thought to share, as I'm guessing perhaps others have experienced something similar.
Anyhow, so for tonight's piece, I had thought about utilizing the colors of fall and basing a piece upon the colors and their symbolism, but, instead I went a different direction. I decided to go a bit more metaphoric here today, even adding in a concrete image along the way. Cheers.
Autumn
was a girl.
Today,
she’s most definitely a woman.
I’d
see her, standing there, from time to time,
Yet,
never a single word departed lips.
None
were needed. The Exchange was simple.
She
was there. I was near. Yes, it all was rather surreal.
But
comfortable, comfortable as anything I’d ever known.
Her
eyes communicated all there was to see, as succinctly as the tightest definition
found in the oldest and most formidable of tomes, where meaning grew about,
organically changing shape, each moment as her colors fleshed about, allowing
the green in her to fully
mature and
matriculate.
She thrived in mid-July. Only to disappear
Each
and every year
Fall.
