Fall





Frosted sunlight exposes the spider's beauty
Rising mist veils the dawn's mystery
Softening the miracle of falls magnificence
The unspotted fawn leads from innocence
The new caution yet to be learned.

Fall has always been my favoured season. Magic resides within the changing leaves, from dark greens to brilliant reds and yellows deep we see the years end. This year it has an even deeper sense of power and poignancy.


Tragedy and horror strike innocent and helpless victims. I sat at work listening to the horror unfold, staring at falls start. Surrounded by peace and beauty I wonder how. I hear the cries scream unendingly in my mind as I watch the sun pick out the leaves veins. Peace calls out, a soft whisper under the grief.

Bravely flaunting their hidden beauty
Night dark clouds dress in glory
Dawns rise and eves set exposes their secrets

I search for answers, seeking understanding for what I can never understand. Learning why I would become why, and this I will not do. I listen to others grief, deeper, lost in loss they cry for vengeance. I cannot deny the need, though it only continues the cycle of hate to another generation.

Baby wisps float free from the sun
In the nearly clear airy blue sea
Drifting before the calm unseen breeze
Flaunting their beauty uncaringly
Ignored by the sightless and blind

The wind whispers through gaily-coloured trees, "Be still, and know I am" (Psalm 46:10). Falling leaves cling familiarly, before dropping and becoming the new carpet. Which of last years leaves touched me so, and where is it today.

Slowly the knowledge filters through. It matters not why, only what. I will live love, for hate destroys the one who hates. When my life ends I would be remembered for the good I have done, not the evil.

Water fowl chatter and gossip
Song birds sing of summers passing
Magpies warn of mans entry
The secret domain closes
To the owls distant confused hoot
Once for surprise that the sun still shines
Waves gently kiss the sandy shore
Beating time as birds harvest

Over ripe berry bushes, too many for man or bear
Constant flutter and whisper, they prepare
For winters flight south
And in feverish haste the beaver sleeps
Knowing the seasons turn; time is yet hers



Love and hope are enough.

Poem