Autumn is like an old book:
Marred spines turn mean yellow,
staples rust red-orange.
Every stained page is stressed
by a splat of color. Rough-red,
like an old tavern,
we become hungry birds
and prepare for fall.
Shape and shadow are candied citron
as lanterns turn bitter yellow. Autumn
is a red fox, a goblet filled with dark wine,
a hot chilli pepper with smoky eyes.
Pressed leaves take in the colors
of seafood paella and saffron; these leaves
are like death, climaxing with a smile.
Autumn: Her dress is a net of mussels;
dark shelled, it covers up
summer’s weather-beaten body.
So pull out your boots
and stand on an aged, wood floor
like an evergreen.
Dear Gillian and Thomas Sims,
I was wondering if you would like to add the following short poem to your collection?
It was first published, Online (about.com), a few years ago.
Thank you,
Mary Hamrick
Tallahassee, Florida
