"The trees are turning" you said.
I nodded without seeing-
Fingers interlocked
Around an oversized mug
Of butternut squash soup
(With croutons).
The warmth from the mug
Seeped into my knotted joints
Pulsed through my chill-stiffened muscles
Warming my blood.
And as my body sank
Into the welcoming, embracing depths of the velvet sofa
I turned to the window...
Where a myriad of brilliant greens were melting
Into tawny shades of golden orange and coppery scarlet and bronzed yellow...
Where sunlight, slanting low,
Gushed through the oak boughs
Collecting in shimmering pools of raindrops streaked with rainbows.
Where the vast, echoing sky
Was touched with lemon, lilac and pewter
And spilled gold.
This towering cathedral
With kaleidoscope windows
Was steeped in the scent
Of slow-roasting root vegetables
Freshly picked russet apples
And sticky burnt sugar.
Gazing,
I heard the echoes
Of ancestral dances
As the harvest was borne home,
While tongues of flame leaped toward
The star- punched sky.
As the sun's rays succumbed
Lazily
To the moonrise-
The sky sang.
I turned away
From Earth's unbridled celebration
Of the end of a glorious summer.
I looked at my hands
Fingers interlocked
Around an oversized mug of butternut squash soup
(With croutons.)
I shrugged.
And said "yeah."
Jan Clarke
Our monthly gazette is now available free to all newsletter subscribers
