Delicate

what do we allow to lie, hiding,
in the margins of our silence?
in the sinking absence of all impetus?

autumn leaves change not by choice,
but by necessity,
a silent, inevitable reaction to all time passed,
to all interaction that came before,
an inherent response to the wholeness of their surroundings,
to their experience of living

first, it is a slow loss,
almost imperceivable,
then a maelstrom of many stimuli at once,
eventually becoming the catalyst to something so beautiful and transforming,
it feels extraordinary,
because it is

then, there is a necessary letting go,
a freeing and frightening fall whose landing transforms into something fertile,
something that slowly,
not painlessly,
decomposes to feed their own roots,
to prepare them for days to come

what do autumn leaves know that we do not?
what lies in the margins of our silence,
in the delicacy of our awe?

Autumn

the room was quiet but for the near silent whisper of the curtain sheers dusting against the pane,
as the autumn breeze waltzed through the small opening in the window;
peering out, she relished the cool comfort

beyond the long stretch of yellow-tipped, green grass, was a thick wood,
brown trunks stretching into scarlet, papaya, and maize,
swaying in time with the breeze,
a postage stamp echo of the rural wood she knew as a child

closing her eyes, her heart clung to the tree-topped rhythm,
to the familiar, soothing music that belongs only to the autumn,
the peaceful, vibrant tune of youth

-image via Pixabay

Gardening

the sweet glow of summer rests,
ripened to golden on cheeks,
as fastidious fingers tug and pull
that which is not meant
to take root

a curious breeze blows welcomed secrets,
as deliciously sore muscles
and hard-earned sweat
unearth truths once hidden
beneath the now upturned
soil and rocks

anxious leaves rustle a whispered concerto
in the tree tops,
as she gathers herself in handfuls,
piece by organically grown piece,
leaving behind for fertilizer
that which is no longer useful
above ground

and when the work for today is done,
she rests,
under the blue light of the August moon,
ready for the change a’comin’

-image credit Pinterest; shared as part of dVerse Poets Open Link Night; also shared as part of Mindlovemisery’s tale weaver 

Autumn

The room was quiet, but for the near silent whisper of the curtain sheers dusting against the pane, as the autumn breeze waltzed through the small opening in the window. Peering out, she relished the cool comfort. 

Beyond the long stretch of yellow-tipped green grass, was a thick wood. The brown trunks stretched into scarlet, papaya, and maize, swaying in time with the breeze, a postage stamp echo of the rural wood she knew as a child. Inside, her heart clung to the tree-topped rhythm, to the familiar, soothing music that belongs only to the autumn, the peaceful, vibrant tune of youth. 

-image found on Pixabay; writing part of a larger work, shared as part of dVerse prompt, prose poetry