fall’s fabric
the fabric of fall
is a narrow gleaming strip
between bloom and detritus,
at once fresh and frayed.
autumn is weaver,
seamstress, singer.
she is the glee
and the lament.
birds and squirrels
scavenge the yard
for scraps we’ve sewn—
swinging tube of seeds,
bucket of black walnuts,
worms plugged into moist ground.
these are the days
of luscious comforts,
down and cider, fire,
the crow’s song sung
to the tune of radiator hum,
rhythm tapped by knitting needles.
I have worried all the buttons
on this shrunken, ill-fitting year,
and its first good breath
is a last colorful gasp
with flaming maple leaf confetti.
adieu, adieu,
remember me,
it calls as the last bright remnants
are stitched into the waning light.
I will.
I will.
3 Comments
Nice poem Leslie, I love the 2nd and 3rd line.
This is wonderful. I particularly like "narrow gleaming strip" and "worms plugged into moist ground." Perfect.
Love fall
Love your poetry
Love old sewing machines
Love you too!