October’s solemn smile

Thank god for the gold-red leaves for without them, I think there’d be no color. Old relatives like dead leaves fall off shriveled-brown-unnoticed and swept to the side, the cold takes them, a different kind of harvest. In the morning it’s gray with furrowed brows on the horizon, a dead end street that leads to the lake. And coming back, the pine needles on the roadside shoulders: the dead make patterns on the edges, the romance of the fall is in the end, the end we all need to remake ourselves after a long sleep, to rise and fall the same as we always have, to fall and disappear unnoticed, to rise again with the same dreams, to forget what they tried to tell us.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in musings, poetry, prose and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to October’s solemn smile

  1. Superb. I won’t shuffle through the fallen leaves in quite the same way from now on … 🍂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    it’s what keeps us going

    Like

  3. Joy Pixley says:

    Pure poetry, with the crunchy whispering of leaves underfoot at every step, and yet another killer last line.

    Like

  4. From whence comes the melancholy leprechaun? Did he inspire this rustically poetic para?

    Liked by 1 person

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