Autumnal

Oh, Rita, yes, your garden's nice.
The sun is bright. The air is crisp,
As are these slices of the apple
You have taken from your tree,
But don't you know why I am here?
The world's dying. Look around.
The leaves are turning lurid colors,
Falling. All the birds are flying
South, and, I, in middle age, feel
Fall in summer, even spring, and
Come to you in desperation.
Could you hold me close, and keep
Away the chill and terror that grow
Deeper in these longer nights?
Could you say the world cools;
It doesn't really die, and you and
I will sleep to rise again, words
Which aren't exactly true, though
I would find them nice?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 20 times
Written on 2011-10-06 at 17:38

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text