The Carlisle Mosquito Online

Friday, November 17, 2006


Autumn Poem

How is it a poem

that the sun disappears

too soon from the sky?

that birds flock overhead,

and branches are bared

in the wind as I watch?

that each day becomes

a freeze-frame image

of broken light,

the end of summer's

green continuum, as time

flickers more swiftly by?

that the feathery heads

of dead goldenrod foreshadow

the grey-white of winter?

How is it a poem

that I grow as old

and as grey as the goldenrod?

2006 The Carlisle Mosquito