AUTUMN

One from many years back but seems apropriate now.

AUTUMN 1969

Elms are flared with yellow;

Oaks turn bronze;

Mist swirls along the furrow;

The year grows old.

And the beech trees stand

Root-deep in discarded gold.

I, squirrel-like secrete

About the hollows of my mind

Jewels

To hang upon the world

At other times

When all within

Is uniformly grey,

When poetry fades

And reason

Faces the light of day.

But words cannot retain

Such images;

Only their ghosts remain,

Reminding me how

Through the autumn mist

I prayed involuntary prayers

Of gratitude

To gods that did not exist.