I see the last three months of the year as a cascade of holidays, autumn turning into winter in time with the holidays. Three months. Three holidays.
begins its slow work on the leaves,
branches of green evolving
into amber and gold, then falling, falling
until the oaks have coated my yard in rust.
The woody breeze of fire pits,
the distant sound of a high school band,
the popping of fireworks as the fair ends each night -
a replay of old, happy memories
that forces my frantic mind to slow.
I remember the repetition like the bass drum,
setting the rhythm as the seasons turn.
Pumpkins line the porch steps.
Ghosts and goblins arrive first,
faces glowing under plastic masks,
eyes tracking every piece dropped,
parents gauging their candy tax.
Then comes a cornucopia
of friends and family carrying casserole dishes -
the smell of pumpkin pie,
the anticipation of roasted turkey,
familiar comforts for the lucky ones.
Candy canes replace sunken pumpkins,
twinkling lights blur on barren branches
as Christmas trees peep through windows,
the porch cleared of hay bundles
so there is room for piles of parcels.
The unrelenting beat of Christmas
hurries me forward until the day arrives,
then stillness for a week
until the last day is marked
with a new calendar hung on the kitchen wall.
The year has left its mark in measured cadence.
The drum begins again.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-10-07 at 05:22
Tags Seasons Holidays Calendar
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Measured Cadence
The sharp autumn chillbegins its slow work on the leaves,
branches of green evolving
into amber and gold, then falling, falling
until the oaks have coated my yard in rust.
The woody breeze of fire pits,
the distant sound of a high school band,
the popping of fireworks as the fair ends each night -
a replay of old, happy memories
that forces my frantic mind to slow.
I remember the repetition like the bass drum,
setting the rhythm as the seasons turn.
Pumpkins line the porch steps.
Ghosts and goblins arrive first,
faces glowing under plastic masks,
eyes tracking every piece dropped,
parents gauging their candy tax.
Then comes a cornucopia
of friends and family carrying casserole dishes -
the smell of pumpkin pie,
the anticipation of roasted turkey,
familiar comforts for the lucky ones.
Candy canes replace sunken pumpkins,
twinkling lights blur on barren branches
as Christmas trees peep through windows,
the porch cleared of hay bundles
so there is room for piles of parcels.
The unrelenting beat of Christmas
hurries me forward until the day arrives,
then stillness for a week
until the last day is marked
with a new calendar hung on the kitchen wall.
The year has left its mark in measured cadence.
The drum begins again.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-10-07 at 05:22
Tags Seasons Holidays Calendar
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
