Original Poem: Equinox.
(Just a kind of a poem for the first day of Fall. Not happy with it, but such is poetry.)
[EQUINOX]
EQUINOX
We are the Autumn people,
rust-leaved rustle-footed wanderers,
tracing the edges of the long cold,
appreciating beauty in the ending of things.
Dusk is our cathedral,
whisper-breezed and crackling.
In day, we perceive the time-imbued leaves:
gold, crimson, orange, evergreen, umber.
Sometimes the light fails us,
they disappear,
non-existent figments.
We forget they exist.
But we are the Autumn people,
crepuscular together.
We remind each other of the tree-dancing colour,
igniting fires that echo the capering hues,
bringing iridescence into the night with a different crackle.
Smoke stings our eyes, throats,
but it is welcome
clearing vision and voice.
We are the Autumn people.
We live in the slowing cold,
the change and turn,
the senescence of the year.
Fog and whispering,
calm and slowing,
The encroaching cold and silence.
The ending of things
so that there can be
Beginnings.
[EQUINOX]
EQUINOX
We are the Autumn people,
rust-leaved rustle-footed wanderers,
tracing the edges of the long cold,
appreciating beauty in the ending of things.
Dusk is our cathedral,
whisper-breezed and crackling.
In day, we perceive the time-imbued leaves:
gold, crimson, orange, evergreen, umber.
Sometimes the light fails us,
they disappear,
non-existent figments.
We forget they exist.
But we are the Autumn people,
crepuscular together.
We remind each other of the tree-dancing colour,
igniting fires that echo the capering hues,
bringing iridescence into the night with a different crackle.
Smoke stings our eyes, throats,
but it is welcome
clearing vision and voice.
We are the Autumn people.
We live in the slowing cold,
the change and turn,
the senescence of the year.
Fog and whispering,
calm and slowing,
The encroaching cold and silence.
The ending of things
so that there can be
Beginnings.