Nobody else knows it either

I haven’t done this in a long time…

*      *      *      *      *

A hiss, a scrape, sometimes chittering
A dry leaf teases the pavement
Goaded by the wind which dares
To vie with the sun for the rights
To define the warmth of the day

Not deigning to compete with the thunder
Or the driving rains, the season still
Embraces sound, not in quantity,
But in constance, the murmur of the crowds
Of dry grasses, erupting in surprise
At the sudden gusts, themselves too fickle
To stay for long

The colors, by habit, cannot go unnamed
Taunting our senses with the hues
Of ripe fruit and new flowers.
A disguise, a hoax, they fade abruptly
Laughing at our responses
Knowing the winter will be revealed
By their unmasking

Misunderstood trees, bare and spindly
Flout ironic detachment;
Wearing a heavy coat all summer,
They throw off their clothes
To embrace the winter skyclad
Fingerpainting dark lines
Against temperamental clouds.
Clinging alone at a tip
And flashing defiance in the gales
Just one leaf ignores the directive
And waving smugly
Looks down on its brethren

The sun, disapproving,
Lowers its eye to glare sternly
Through the licentious branches;
We look away from its gaze quickly
But bear the memory of the contact
In purple stain on all else
Only for moments

A roulette wheel of climates
Spins almost daily, to save us from
The cloying monotony
Of dressing like yesterday.
Intrepid explorers, we brave
Dark unexplored regions of our closets

Impudent leaves, giggling and chuckling,
Play upon manicured lawns
To abandon themselves as their own forgotten toys
Fostering screams of displeasure vented
With monoxide gusts through plastic tubes
Drowning out the discussion of the air
And the branches
In a wail of pointlessly saved labor

The mornings bring patterns
Of frigid moisture staining
The grasses and leaves like, well,
Like frost; To make a metaphor for
A most common metaphor itself
Is certainly meta, and probably
Misplaced effort

To sit enclosed by walls and wrestle
With ways to describe and express
Means forgetting that words
Are mere substitutions;
Better to engage
Many more senses
By seeking firsthand
The experience
Oneself

*      *      *      *      *

No, I’m not a poet (duh!) and to be honest, I don’t even like poetry. I just started messing around with ideas a little in honor of the season – and even I know how trite that is. So for everyone out there who’s into poetry or litritcher that wants to comment, just bear in mind the challenge of low-hanging fruit*

* Which is a stupid metaphor in itself. Of course anyone would go after low-hanging fruit – what kind of idiot would climb to the top of the tree for some? Is the higher stuff supposed to be better in some way, or more prestigious? What a pointless expression…

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