In the wheel of Earth’s years
we watch as Autumn’s clock
Tick-tocks in tiny goldenrod
September petal’d seconds
Frosty trees bleed scarlet hours
through veins of October leaves
Amber minutes wither and fall
drifting in November’s breeze
And the silent strike of midwinter
turns December’s snowflake gears
green-veined leaves suddenly blushing copper
bronze-edged trees swaying in autumn breezes
gold foliage drifting past pewter branches baring all
brass-hued leaflets dying in beauty, falling in grace
Wind tries to show Tree how to run wild.
Tree: “I cannot leave this place.”
Wind: “Then let’s dance.”
moonlit winter trees
bare branches paint gray shadows
ghostly risen roots
great horned christmas caroling owl
crooning to a nearly full cold moon—
aromatic firewood smoke dancing
with chill desert air and winter stars—
people holidaying with indoor trees
oblivious to nature’s nighttime party
Springtime is a poet —
the blue sky its blank page
so vibrant green in rhyme
a different metre for every clime
birds chirping to keep the time
wildflowers yellow, red, purple divine
words dancing on tall blades of grasses
sparkling in the morning dews
no commas the flow keeps buzzing
vernal dashes & blossoming branches
on newly greening verdant trees
refrains whispering in each breeze
butterflies — floating apostrophes
ladybugs dot floral question marks
blissful bees stray stanza to stanza
seeds disperse from verse to verse
continuing a poem that’s never ended
and into summer’s colors is blended
when the leaves fly
float, feather, flutter
off the autumn trees
i am in love with life
learn from leaves
green is go —
yellow & red
slow down, stop
take time to rest
Autumn leaves blaze their swan song of color and wait for Winter to wipe the slate clean.
some trees re-leaf in the blink of an eye
the instant that winter first hesitates —
and some wait till a quarter of summer
this winter afternoon
i stare between bare
branches of gray trees
in the distance i see
an unreturnable past
or a dwindling future
i can’t tell which but
the silence is sublime
I who have loved the sound of leaves
Restlessly writhing into speech
Desire that to my silent grave
Only leaves shall reach.
So I who walked above the ground,
And leaves that danced before the sun
May meet below to form one dust
And in the earth be one.
When the last wind has stripped the boughs
Some autumn, go out anywhere
To any tree, and look beneath
The leaves: I may be there.
—Paul Engle, “Leaves for the Dead,” 1929
Trickling down from branch to branch
Like a saffron avalanche,
Filtering through the sylvan gauze
As a frozen topaz thaws,
Lay, in puddles on the moss,
Golden solar, apple-sauce…
—Tom Prideaux (1908–1993), “The Sun-Shunner,” written in the