THE VILLAGE POET
Autumn’s sighs — of relief, of remembrance, and of long goodbyes.
When Autumn comes, poets tell it slant
and straight through sunsets and sunrises.
Before long—even in fantastical love sonnets—
“beauty’s rose” ends. Frustrating reality wakes us.
We sigh in surrender, resign ourselves to know
Gibran’s truth—sorrow and joy are “inseparable.”
When Autumn comes, our sighs are soft, low, and
slower. We’ve been released from Southern summer’s
harsh scorch which even burns up hardy SunPatiens.
We sigh with relief while hummingbirds zip-pity
daz-zle us with their hover of farewell before vanishing,
but only to a warmer winter away from the Carolinas.
When Autumn comes, sighs of remembrance tag along.
Are swirling leaves thoughts? Vignettes from the past?
Landing, the leaves design a palette. Butter-yellow,
diamond-shaped leaves fall from the river birch.
Orange and rich reds, from maples. Burgundy,
from white oak. As if on a spider’s dragline, a peel
from the crepe myrtle bark swings on Spanish moss.
When Autumn comes, some sighs are long goodbyes.
Untangling a relationship that unintentionally became
intertwined. Sorting. What’s yours? What’s mine?
What’s blended into “ours,” after shared time and
stepping into shops for second-hand finds:
the blue and yellow common plate made in Portugal.
a vintage bookshelf to display truth and beauty.
that small painting of a French cafe, titled
“Spleen Hour.” Is the artist depicting boredom
of Baudelaire? Or the sad sighs of regret?
Neither have we had to face—
not yet—
