Poetry Friday is hosted by Amy @ The Poem Farm this Friday – join us there for the poetry roundup!
Fall in upstate New York is glorious. It was just about at its peak when we were up at the farm last weekend; everywhere we looked was a living painting. Walking through the woods or around the pastures, we could see signs of the summer past – goldenrod and Queen Anne’s Lace gone to seed. It is October…summer is really just a memory now…
the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run
to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy
pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,
the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright
as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery
grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs
and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker
down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time.
No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope
of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky.