Gray on Brown

The colors mirror my insides
this time of year,
the muted tones and
dampened smiles

The earth settling in,
parts of it fallen to repose
in piles and patterns,

Wisps of wood fire smoke:
the crackle in the leaves,
the rain, the geese,
some are bedding down,
others leaving town —

Mushroom hoods gather the gloom,
the sky is running out of room —

Bursts of last light
as the wick goes down,
the room gets dark
and we say good-night.

Categories: Poetry

Bill Pearse