The time for writing poetry can present itself often; sometimes not at all,
But I find it is more prevalent when summer turns to fall,
The dulling hues on leaves have left them stripped of life's green blood,
And soon they'll lay upon the ground in heaps of rotting mud.
It is in this gloomy setting inspiration finds its muse,
And pulls from this its life-long wish to signify a use,
But often it just lays within twisted, tattered thoughts,
A life now hanging by a thread whose breath will soon be lost.
The sky, once blue, now finds itself immersed within dark clouds,
That suffocates the life within, and binds it in a shroud,
It floats above, yet hovers long above the dying ground,
Where life flourished in abundance, but no longer makes a sound.
Each season touches each of us in its own special way,
We feel the joy with each rebirth, we celebrate each growing day,
But when the summer cycle ends, and fall has taken hold,
We realize, along with this, the young has now grown old.
Words of rhyme can come alive at any given moment,
To form, in regimented line, enjoyment or amusement,
And though the words may differ in their meaning or their use,
Those who read can take from them whatever they may choose.
~ I often find myself pondering over the seasons as they come and go,
each bringing with them an assortment of emotions - happenings because
of those emotions - but always sheer wonder of the entire reason behind
it all. I often wonder if we are meant to know, and there is something to
be realized in the fact that we don't. Maybe that is a good thing. I surely
love autumn, as much as one might think differently from the words in this
poem, but I do. I love the colors, the textures, and the visual beauty of
it all, and though it saddens me to see it ending, I know it will all come
again. Such thoughts were the inspiration for this poem, however the reader
may take them. ~ R.B.
