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WHAT AUTUMN MEANS TO ME AND SOME POETS LIKE ME
Fall and I are often like two long-lost friends
In search of each other
In the circling orbits of mass and emptiness.
Even William Blake* was one of us
As were John Keats* and Emily Dickinson*
And Thomas Stearns Eliot too.
And just like true pals cleft apart
By some strange mistake of God's angels
All of us have been separated
Over centuries and by seasons.
Our deeply feeling hearts and sensitive minds
Need the golden beauty of autumn's resplendence
To give a surge of what is defined as Spring
In the lexicons of man and his chronicles.
We are dependent seekers
Of peace, quiet and solitude
To provide much needed solace
And be ready to sprout in the months
When people love greenery and flowers
Love, music, dance and mild evenings
Filled with the lyre of romance and joy.
O autumn! Had you not been there
All this would not have ever happened
Even if most of the world loves Spring
There are still some -- like Blake, Keats,
Emily Dickinson and poor old me
Who revel and rejuvenate along with nature
To glorify every thing wise created for us
By the Greatest Artist of us all.
